


Bent but not broken

by MoonlightTaylor



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Torture, d'Artagnan Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-08-29 16:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 57,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8496655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonlightTaylor/pseuds/MoonlightTaylor
Summary: Athos is drunk and says something. d'Artagnan suddenly has the irresistable urge to prove himself, which makes the Inseparables seem a whole lot less inseparable. Then, a mission goes terribly wrong... WARNINGS: Torture scenes, violence, probably some swearing here and there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

There's that metallic tang of blood in the air. Rancid breaths puff onto him, as warm and wet as the sweat on his back and the tears on his face. From where he's standing (or being held up by the chains that hang him from the ceiling – he isn't quite sure which) he can see his tormenter circling him endlessly.

Still, he doesn't see the slash of the whip coming. He hears it, though. There's a whoosh as it rips the air apart. And he feels it. Oh, boy does he feel it. There's a white hot fire as it rips his skin to shreds.

His body is screaming now, begging for attention. But however much he wants to, however hard he tries, he can't get the screaming to leave his body. When he opens his mouth to scream, to beg for the pain to stop all that comes out is a grunt, a large exhale of air. Nothing else. Vaguely he wonders at why. Gascon pride, perhaps? Ingrained so deep that even when he rebels against it, it still wins out? They'd call it stubbornness.

They. Aramis, Athos, Porthos. Les Inseperables. Musketeers. Friends.

Brothers.

He hopes that connection will be enough for them to come after him. He hopes that he did not offend them with his willingness to leave. He also hopes that he did. That his friends will never come, will never see him like this, and will never have to endure all this pain and fear.

There's another whoosh, followed by a cackle of laughter. There's a question, but he has long stopped paying attention to those. Something warm and wet and painful slides over his back.

Maybe Athos was right after all. d'Artagnan may not have believed the man at the time, but he can feel it now.

Everything ends bloody, and there is no dignity in death.

**Earlier**

A roar of drunken anger rings through the tavern when a wine bottle crashes into the wall with enough force to spread the shattered glass through the entire room. Athos gets up on unsteady feet and pulls his rapier. His normally steady mind is hazed and he finds himself extremely frustrated by the fact that a perfectly likable, half full bottle of wine has been wasted. Yes, that half full bottle – let it never again be said that Compte Athos de la Fère is a pessimist – is the reason he's rising to join the brawl that just erupted. No, this has nothing to do at all with the recent discourse between him and his brothers. And no, he has most definitely not been waiting for a chance to fight all evening. What he cannot deny, though, when he punches a particularly vile looking Red Guard in the face, is that he is very grateful towards Porthos for starting this brawl to begin with.

Suddenly, a loud "OI!" is yelled trough the tavern. A silence falls over the room as everyone turns to look at the source of the 'oi'. A formidable looking woman slaps a cloth against a table with a swift swing and spits: "If you're here to brawl go find another tavern. If you're here to drink than sit down and drink, instead of wasting my bloody wine!"

There is a moment of indecision, the troublemakers trying to figure out how serious the woman is. Then a foolish young man asks the woman with a cocky voice, "What are you going to do if we want to stay?"

The woman fixes him with a deadly stare. "Do not take that tone with me boy, I know your mother and I will be sure to tell her exactly how badly you are acting here. Now get out."

There's some laughter, and the boys friends are already taunting him mercilessly while he turns bright red. He mumbles something about how his mother has nothing to do with anything and then walks away – presumably to his mother. The rest of the party dissipates rather quickly as well, though a few sit down for another drink. Athos is one of these few, obviously. Before he can get his shaky legs to work with him though, he feels a warm hand on his arm. It's Porthos, who's tucking away his earnings for the night with his other hand, and looking over his head at Aramis. Aramis, with a girl on his arm heaves a sigh as his eyes make contact with his comrade's. Before Athos can even guess the meaning of their stares, Porthos tells Athos that it might be time to leave.

"Time for bed, my friend" he says, "You've downed enough to at least fall asleep rather easily."

"Waking up may not be quite as easy, though…" Aramis, who has left his lady friend and is now at Athos' other side, adds with a smirk. For a moment Athos wants to object, but his vision is hazy, his feet are unsteady, and his mind is dulled to an such an extent that he feels he may already be sleeping.

The three musketeers walk slowly towards Athos' apartment, and his mind is too far gone to realise they are missing their fourth member, or wonder why he is not here.

* * *

A place like the garrison is always full of a comforting sort of hustle and bustle. Loud men with large weapons, the scuffle of training, horses neighing while they're tended to and the constant coming and leaving of messengers is what makes the place alive. It's like taking a breath of familiar air for Captain Treville as he returns from two long days of sitting in tiring meetings at the palace.

As he walks towards his office Treville hears Aramis' jovial cry, "Captain! You're back! We'd almost started wondering if you'd turned into a politician…"

With a turn on his heel the Captain is looking back at the marksman, who's sitting on his usual table cleaning his weapons. Porthos is grinning next to him, breakfast still in his hands. Somewhere behind their backs, he can see Athos' haggard form. Rough night, then.

"I don't think they have enough skill to make me a politician." Treville answers Aramis, then adds, "Get off of the table, you two. The bench is there for a reason."

Aramis' eyes light up like he's about to retort something, but before he gets the chance Treville is walking up the stairs. He vaguely wonders where d'Artagnan is, but the enormous stack of paperwork on his desk distracts him before the thought can truly form.

Downstairs, Aramis and Porthos are still seated right on top of the table, insulting each other amiably. Athos, with his head in his hands – quite literally – feels their every word pummel his hungover mind.

"Where's d'Artagnan?" Athos asks, suddenly realising what is missing at their table.

"We thought you'd know." Comes Aramis' surprised reply. "I mean, he must have told you something when he left last night?"

"He left last night?" Athos is perplexed. D'Artagnan usually stays the entire evening, in fact, Athos is often escorted home by the young Musketeer. "How did I get home then?"

"That must a' been some strong wine you had yesterday, my friend." Porthos laughs and then, as an answer to his friend's question adds, "We brought you home."

"And d'Artagnan?"

"Dunno. He walked out after about two hours, looking ready to punch something. Told me he was going home." Porthos shrugs, as if it is normal for the kid to walk out on them that angrily.

Athos frowns at that, his memory from last night spotty at best. After his second bottle of wine things had started to get a bit blurry…

"Maybe it was something you said…?" Aramis starts, but he is cut off when Porthos loudly exclaims, "Speak of the devil!" as d'Artagnan comes sauntering into the garrison. He looks over at his friends at the table and waves, making to come over. When his eyes meet Athos', though, he falters, changing his course to the stables.

"Perhaps you're right, Aramis." Athos says with a frown. As the gong rings, and training rounds start, he resolves to finding out what exactly he has done to their youngest friend.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time, the Inseparables separate.

Things change after that night. There is a distance between Athos and d'Artagnan that makes everyone extremely uncomfortable. It's not an animosity, so much as a slight chill in their relationship. D'Artagnan, being his stubborn self, has not uttered a word about what transpired to make him look at his mentor differently. Athos on the other hand, has no patience with this silence and tries to push to find out what is wrong. When this yields nothing but d'Artagnan's passive aggressive mutter of, "Maybe you'll find out when you lose that drunken haze.", Athos gives up entirely. If the Gascon ever decides to stoop to his mentor's 'drunken' level and tell him exactly what he has done wrong then he will listen. Before that time, the young man does not need to expect any particular kindness or friendship.

Two weeks later, and Athos and d'Artagnan greet each other politely, and spend friendly time together when Porthos and Aramis were around. They don't seem to be able to carry a deeper conversation than a light quip about the weather, though. And quite frankly, it's driving everyone mad. So, overly eager, d'Artagnan grabs the first assignment he can go on without Athos. To Porthos' and Aramis' surprise he also declines their offer to join him. To their credit they don't comment on it, and instead join Athos' valiant attempt at drowning in wine. Bottle in hand, they try to ignore the guilty relief at being free of tension that their youngest friend has brought over the past few weeks.

* * *

d'Artagnan is having a surprisingly good time. While he is slightly out of his depth – he's never gone on a mission without any of the Inseparables involved – the new company is oddly refreshing. Of course, these men aren't total strangers. He's trained alongside them in baking heat and pouring rain. He remembers duelling Moreau in two feet of snow one time. Getting along with these men is easier almost than with his brothers. There is much less history within this group, which leads to light conversation that immediately sets d'Artagnan at ease. In no time, he is comfortably laughing along with the jokes about Treville's newest haircut.

They're a group of five men. Moreau and Vasser are only a couple of years older than d'Artagnan, and they haven't been musketeers for much longer than d'Artagnan has. Having grown up as close friends, it's difficult to get a word between them. This doesn't, however, mean that they are bad company. On the contrary, they are firm believers of the idea of 'the more, the merrier', and they don't speak the dialect from their region – Brittany – a single time. Jean-Pierre DuPont is quieter, one of the older musketeers. He's mousey, and has that grim look about him that tells you he's seen too much in his life. Whatever he's seen doesn't seem to have affected his sense of humour, though. He shares a witty one-liner every once in a while that cracks the entire group up, but no one more than Jacques Petit. Jacques Petit is not in fact very 'petit'. He is broad and tall enough to give Porthos a run for the money. Additionally, he is an incredibly well informed man in both political and cultural sense, so he brings a nice twist to the conversation. Together, they make quite a jovial group as they ride through the French countryside.

It takes three days for the men to reach their destination; the manor that they need to deliver a letter to. Walls high, and seated comfortably atop a hill, it looks more like a fortress than a house. It is truly a place for one of the King's cousins. Despite its less than friendly appearance, the place still manages to look somehow quaint in the setting sun. Vineyards circle up the hill, and a homely cloud of smoke billows out of a chimney.

However, as they ride up the hill, it becomes blatantly clear that something is off. Half of the vines have been stomped into the ground, or been torn away completely. The horses start getting restless despite their training. And with good reason; closer to the manor, the ground is scorched, and the gateway to its courtyard hangs on one sole hinge. The easy-going conversation of the last few days stills. Scabbards are drawn as the men dismount. They enter quietly, in the vain hope that their arrival has not yet been noticed. That is highly unlikely, unless the attackers of the vineyard are blind – anyone standing anywhere on one of the walls would have seen the musketeers coming from miles away.

On entering the courtyard they find it empty, save for some pots and pans strewn haphazardly over the ground. Pigs walk lazily looking for food. Other than their occasional snort, the place is quiet. No enemies. No corpses or crying prisoners. No danger.

Just as the musketeers decide that they can lower their defences in the absence of an enemy, a shot rings out. The Musketeers duck instinctively, seeking cover near the walls as another shot cracks through the air.

DuPont, the eldest of the group, immediately takes charge. He directs Vasser and Petit to the walls – presumably to take out the sharpshooter that's aiming at them. Moreau covers the two men from below, and DuPont gestures at d'Artagnan to come with him. Sliding along the wall, and ducking the bullets that are constantly flying past his head, the Gascon makes his way over to the elder Musketeer.

There's a door a few feet away. It's a kitchen door they find out as they enter. Behind it, a small hallway leads to a dining hall that has an entrance on either side of a large table in the middle of the room. The entire place is in disarray. Tapestries are torn from walls, painting hanging crooked, and chairs are turned over. A large chandelier that used hang from the ceiling now lies in shambles on the table. With barely a look at each other, the two left over Musketeers each decide to take a different door in the hopes of finding at least some survivors of the carnage in this house.

It's just d'Artagnan's luck that he picks the side with trouble in it.

* * *

Back in Paris Athos is trying (and failing) to avoid eye contact with Porthos and Aramis. At their self-claimed table at the garrison, the two men are staring him down.

"You must remember something from what happened that night, Athos!" Porthos sighs in exasperation. "Even something trivial! You know how thin our Gascon's hide can be."

"I told you already Porthos I do not know what I said to the boy." Athos' sounds equally frustrated when he continues, "I don't even know if I said anything to him."

Aramis shakes his head, "That's not even a question. Something was said to hurt him that night, and you were the only one he spoke to. How can you not remember?"

"Me being drunk might have had something to do with that." The older musketeer says dryly.

"Well forgive me if I don't find that a good excuse, because you never suffer memory loss after drinking."

Athos sighs. He takes off his hat and runs a hand through his hair. It is true. He never forgets his nights, however much he wishes to sometimes. Often he has seen it as a curse, that no night ever truly passes in oblivion. Now, however he's coming to regret the one night when he truly drank enough to make him forget.

"It would seem there is a first time for everything. Even in my drinking habits." Looking up and making eye-contact with both his friends he adds, slightly bitter, "It would also seem that what I said to d'Artagnan is not something he wishes to share. I will handle it. There is no need for your interference."

Aramis merely raises his eyebrows, but Porthos openly scoffs, pushing away from the table.

"Sure" he says, "We'll just leave it up to you two. Then, maybe when hell freezes over we'll finally get an answer."

With a shake of head, Porthos leaves the table. Aramis follows him with a smirk, and significant look in Athos' direction. The compte is not nearly as amused, and well aware that there is no way that his friends will leave this alone. With another sigh he thinks of d'Artagnan, on a mission without them.

Something akin to worry curls in his stomach. Whatever their relationship may be at this moment, that boy had better come back in one piece.

* * *

D'Artagnan is not by any means a weak fighter. In fact, he considers himself to be quite good with a sword. Still, four men is a bit much for one man to handle, and he's been driven into a corner. Arm tiring, knuckles bruised, and adversaries with considerable skill – the Gascon does not like his odds.

It is a good thing, therefore, that DuPont comes running in, dispatching one man immidately with a stab to his back. Two against three are considerably better odds and d'Artagnan is sinking his rapier into his opponent's gut only moments after his colleague's timely entrance. Luck isn't quite on the musketeers' side yet, though, because Moreau and Petit come backing into the hall battling three men.

During the skirmish that follows, d'Artagnan finds he misses his friends. Yes, the musketeers he's fighting alongside are good, but they're no Inseparables. He misses Aramis' chatter that fills even the hardest battles as he mocks his opponent, he misses Porthos growl of annoyance when an adversary doesn't go down quite as quickly as he had hoped. And of course he misses the rhythmic clanging of Athos' sword and the bored look he like to throw d'Artagnan's way when he dispatches a man with too much ease. Mostly though he just misses having those three stubborn men at his back.

But that is something he will not admit even under the pain of death. Not after Athos' words.

Thoughts of Athos prove enough of a distraction for his opponent to deal d'Artagnan a heavy blow that snaps his head into the wall behind him. For a moment he sees stars. Ouch, he thinks. That really hurts. He opens his eyes to see a man approaching him, grin on his face, and rapier raised. Right, he was fighting.

The world spins lazily around him and d'Artagnan only raises his sword just in time to stop the blow that was meant for his chest. Pushing away from the wall with all his strength he forces the man into a defensive stance. For a moment their blades stay interlocked, but then d'Artagnan's adversary jerks forward slightly, jostling the man's already painful head.

Everything tilts, and before he knows it, d'Artagnan is staring up a falling blade. Once again, he brings up his rapier – which he's surprised to find is still clutched firmly in his hand – to stop the blade from skewering him. Unfortunately, he isn't quite fast enough to stop it entirely, and instead of killing him, it simply slices into his shoulder. His rapier is ripped from his grasp by the sheer force of the blow.

Great. That leaves him on the ground, disarmed, with a bleeding shoulder and an aching head. Not great odds. Judging from the smug smirk on the man's face, d'Artagnan's adversary has noticed this too. The man brings back his rapier, ready to deal a final blow. And this time, there's no blade to stop it. It's a good thing, therefore, that Porthos taught d'Artagnan to fight dirty. He puts all his strength behind the kick to enemy's groin, doubling the man over in pain. With a flourish, the young Gascon pulls a main gauche from his boot, embedding it deep in the stomach of his opponent.

The man crumples to the ground with a pained grunt. d'Artagnan lets himself fall back.

* * *

The manor is empty, save for the bodies in the hall and the pigs in the court. Or so d'Artagnan is told. DuPont and Moreau have him sitting in a chair in the kitchen next to Petit and Vasser. Why? Because they're 'injured'. Inwardly, d'Artagnan scoffs at this. Sure, his head aches, and he's got an annoying graze on his left shoulder. That does not mean that he is incapable of walking around a house to look for survivors. Nor does it mean that he needs any help from Vasser, who is trying to clean the scratch on his shoulder. Petit sits next to him, with bruised ribs and a broken nose. The large man has just as little patience for Vasser's careful ministrations as the Gascon, and it does not take long for the man to give up with and exasperated sigh.

"Fine. I give up." Vasser says, gesturing wildly with his arms. He mutters something else in what d'Artagnan assumes is his own dialect from Brittany, because he does not understand head nor tail of it. "It's not like I want to be here anyway."

D'Artagnan wastes no time getting up, ignoring the spots in his vision when he does so too quickly, and says, "Good. I suggest we help the others."

Vasser nods eagerly, but Petit shakes his head in sadness. "I doubt we'll find anyone alive."

"That would be a sad turn to an easy mission." Vasser interjects. "We were only supposed to hand over a letter, and now we find the family slaughtered."

"The King will not be pleased." d'Artagnan muses. "And we don't even know who the attackers were."

Silence falls again, and d'Artagnan can't help but think that Athos would have known who the men were. He would have spared one for questioning. But Athos is not here.

D'Artagnan is walking past one of the few tapestries that is still firmly attached to the wall when he hears a soft shuffling. He signs to the musketeers to stop and listen, pointing at the tapestry. A moment passes, and just as the Gascon starts to think that he may have imagined it, he hears it a again. The sound of someone shifting from one foot to the other. He can see that the others have heard it as well.

Petit unsheathes his rapier, while Vasser loads his musket. d'Artagnan moves up quietly to the tapestry. Then, slowly, very slowly, he moves the tapestry away from the wall. Behind it is a door. It blends in almost perfectly with the wall around it, but there is a simple knob somewhere to the side. On the count of three, the Gascon turns the knob, his fellow musketeers armed and ready to take on any potential threat.

Before he can so much as pull at the door, however, it swings open out of own violation. And it's a good thing that d'Artagnan has quick reflexes, or he would certainly have been beheaded by the giant candelabra that swings his way. As it is, it misses him by a hair's breadth when he ducks away from the doorway.

Filling that very doorway is a dishevelled woman. Her nose is smudged with soot, and she still has the candelabra raised above her head and ready to strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has already been written and posted on fanfiction.net. As I'm new to ao3 (and still trying to figure out how everything workd) I'm importing all my stuff over to ao3 one by one, and doing a short spell/grammar/typing error check before posting each chapter or story. So, this will be updated each day, newly checked and hopefully squeaky clean. However, if you really can't wait for the next chapter you can always read it in one go over at ff.net. :)
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it either way.


	3. Chapter 3

Time seems to come to a halt. The woman freezes when she sees the musket and the rapier pointed her way. The three musketeers merely stand as if nailed to the ground, dumbstruck by the unexpected unfolding of the situation. In the moment or two that it takes the musketeers to unfreeze, the woman has composed herself. There is no sign of the frantic look she had in her eyes when the door swung open. Instead, there is a grim determination as she grips the candelabra (which is, d'Artagnan notes with a little worry, still raised above her head) tighter.

"You should know that if you attempt to shoot me, I will not hesitate to dent your head with this candelabra." The woman states calmly.

Her words are greeted by silence, as the musketeers try to regroup. It is plain to see that this woman has little to do with the men that plundered this place. Her dress looks expensive enough to make Constance blush, and she is obviously intimate with the workings of the house or she would not have known there was a door behind the tapestry. Which means, d'Artagnan realises, that she is on their side. Petit, apparently, comes to the same conclusion and lowers his rapier.

Head throbbing slightly from the sudden move it just made, d'Artagnan moves back, as he says, "No need to worry, Madame. We have no intention to hurt you."

The woman remains as still as a statue, staring at something over d'Artagnan's shoulder. When he turns around he realises that Vasser still has his musket raised and pointed in the general direction of the door. Petit rolls his eyes and pushes Vasser's musket down slowly so it's pointing at the ground. He then states cordially, "As I am sure Vasser here," his large hand waved in the direction of the shocked Briton, "will assure you when he regains his ability to speak, we truly wish you no harm."

"He does seem a bit shocked." Comes the woman's tense reply.

"Well, in his defence madame, you did look like a wrathful angel when you came out the door like that." Petit replies easily. The man really does know the workings of the court, d'Artagnan realises with some amusement.

"You flatter me," she states, but she does not smile, "You must forgive me, however, if I do not take your word for it. Trust is not something I give away easily." the unspoken 'anymore' hangs in the air, heavy and unstirring.

"We are here by order of the King," d'Artagnan decides to cut in. In his mind, that really is the only proof of loyalty necessary. To everyone's relief, the woman seems to agree to some extent. Though her hands have not dropped yet, they're shaking with exertion, and she seems at interested in what they have to say. Or at least, she seems less interested in bashing in d'Artagnan's head.

Vasser, who has finally wrapped his mind around what is happening, unclips his pauldron and hands it to d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan, in turn, holds it up to the woman and adds to his previous statement, "We're musketeers, see?"

It takes another second or two for relief to wash over the woman's face, as she lowers her hands. The candelabra falls to the ground with a loud clatter. Hesitantly, d'Artagnan reaches out to her, in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.

"What's your name?" Petit asks, surprisingly gently for a man of his size.

"Marie-Claire de Boirgeaux." Her voice is still stable, though she seems to be looking through all of them.

d'Artagnan finally reaches her shoulder with his hand, gripping it softly to let her know he is there. God only knows what Marie-Claire has gone through. He shares a look with Petit, who nods and adds in that same gentle voice he used before, "Madame de Boirgeaux, are you alright?"

It's quiet for a minute or so, silence filling the hall with tension. Then something between a sob and a gasp for air pierces the silence. For the briefest of moments de Boirgeaux hides her face behind her hand. She leans forward slightly, bowed over.

"No." She states, her voice breaking. d'Artagnan leans closer, his grip strengthening slightly, asking silently what happened. When she replies her tone is dead, void of any of the emotion that just sounded in the brief crack of her voice when she just spoke, "No. Everyone is dead."

The musketeers share shocked expressions. Everyone dead. That is… brutal. Petit opens his mouth as if to say something, but it seems as though even his charm has no words for this. d'Artagnan just tightens his grip even further.

It is Vasser who finally breaks the silence. "If it helps… We killed those who did this."

The woman's head whips up quickly, eyes teary but full of fury. She looks Vasser in the eyes with such ferocity, that the man almost feels the need to take a step back.

"Good." She spits. "I hope it hurt."

* * *

By the time all five musketeers are grouped back in the kitchen with a furious Marie-Claire de Boirgeaux, it is clear that she truly is the only survivor. As to what happened in the manor, Madame de Boirgeaux can barely stay still long enough to tell the story. Every time a particularly nasty part comes up she stands up and gestures wildly, as if she hopes she can turn back time by simply waving her arms.

The story itself is a terrible. Sadly, it is not much different from what anyone expected. Two nights ago a group of about six men attacked the manor. They started by setting fire to the vineyards, and then proceeded to blowing out the door with gunpowder. The fortress, though usually heavily guarded had been lulled into a feeling of safety by the amount of guards that were protecting them. It came as a large shock therefore that almost half the guard turned against them and helped the attackers gain entrance. Once inside, everything went to hell. The manor, at the moment of the outbreak of violence had been almost solely inhabited by men who had tried to hold their ground. It was sheer luck that the lord's wife and children had all left to visit his brother in the South of France. The men were less lucky. They were all killed.

The only reason Marie-Claire is still alive is because her uncle pushed her towards the safety of the trap door. She was the only woman in the place, and she hadn't dared to come out in fear of what the men would do to her. What exactly that was is not specified but it hangs in the air like the sword of Damocles. d'Artagnan swallows at the implication. He may let his heart rule his head, but he is by no means stupid. Or naïve. He knows what the consequences could have been for a young woman among some rowdy, homesick men. And it made d'Artagnan's blood boil. All he can see when he thinks of that is Constance in a similar situation. That thought alone is enough to make bile rise up in his throat.

The four other men wear looks of similar disgust, which only deepen when Marie-Claire tells the rest of the story. She tells them how Monsieur Jean de Boirgeaux-Parcet, Marie-Claire's uncle and his men were lined up in the hallway adjacent to her hiding spot. They were asked in no uncertain terms to join the attackers in a coup against the King. Monsieur de Boirgeaux-Parcet was to bring more men into the palace without a problem, he was part of the royal family after all. He refused. His men, loyal as ever, never left his side. They were all killed, then rolled in the tapestries and dumped out among the vineyards. d'Artagnan remembered seeing strange lumps among the vines, but he would never have guessed what they were.

"The man, the one in charge," Marie-Claire continues, "He kept talking about the coup. And I wanted to go out. I wanted to stop them, to help them, but I was too scared. I'm a coward."

The last part is said in a self-depreciating whisper. d'Artagnan, who is truly enraptured by the story, and impressed by the noble woman's composure, shakes his head immediately.

"I do not know you well Madame, nor do I presume to, but I am pretty sure that you are not a coward. You did the only sensible thing in waiting out in the secret chamber." d'Artagnan tells her.

DuPont nods in assent, "You would certainly have been killed had you gone out Madame. Now you are alive to warn us and King Louis of an attempt to his throne."

Madame de Boirgeaux presses her lips together in obvious disagreement, but she does not mention her presumed cowardice again.

It is decided quickly that the most prudent thing to do is be to get back to Paris, where Madame de Boirgeaux can personally tell her cousin – the King – what she has overheard. Everyone is eager to leave the carnage of death and decay behind them, and no one more that Marie-Claire. She and Petit, who she has taken a liking to, ride out to wait just beyond the vineyards as the musketeers bury the dead. The attackers and the residents of the house are both buried separately, so as not to waste any fertile soil on bad men. And maybe one or to globs of spit find themselves on the graves of the traitors, but no one seems to mind.

It is with a heavy heart that they group of six leave behind the destruction on the hill.

* * *

A warm sun rises above Paris as the band of Musketeers and the noble woman near it. It's autumn, and the sun is rare, especially in Paris. d'Artagnan, summer child that he is, usually relishes any warmth he can get. Today, his thoughts are not on the sun. He's riding next to Marie-Claire who, he notices only now, is still wearing her dirty dress. Her hair is still in disarray, and there are dark circles under her eyes. Still, she sits straight in her saddle, with her head held high. Watching her, he can't help but think of Constance. Not that the two women look very similar, but they have that same look of pride over them. Yes, she's like Constance. Constance who also has that determined look. Constance who can always make him smile. Constance who is perfect for him in every single way.

Constance… who is married.

Right. d'Artagnan sighs, and looks back at the ever approaching city in front of him. He needs to get his head on straight. The group is going straight for the palace to inform the King as soon as possible, and the chance that he is going to see Constance there is very high. He can't let that distract him. Head over heart, like Athos always says.

Athos. Well, that is another name that d'Artagnan might want to ignore for the time being, if the does not want to get distracted.

Marie-Claire casts him a strange look when he let out yet another sigh. He smiles at her sheepishly and murmurs something that is meant to be an apology but probably came out sounding as a sigh. It seems he can't stop sighing. Or thinking. Or feeling.

* * *

King Louis is bored. He desperately wants to go on a hunt but Rochefort has strongly advised against it. Apparently he needs to welcome his far away family from Sweden today. He's met them a few times. They're friendly. They like hunting, too, which would really provide a good reason to go hunting, but Louis trusts Rochefort. If he says it is better to have a banquet tonight instead of a hunt this afternoon, the king will listen. Or, in truth, will grace Rochefort by listening to him. After all, Louis decides in the end. _He_ is the king.

Just when the king is speaking with his economic advisor about the price of Chinese silk (a very expensive commodity), the doors to the palace hall open loudly. In stalks a haggard woman, followed by five rather awkward looking men. Behind them is the doorkeeper, begging them to come back and wait until he has announced them. The men, he sees, are Musketeers, the fleur-de-lis prominent on their shoulders. Among them is d'Artagnan, he notices with some satisfaction. He is always glad to see that man.

It is only when his eyes pass over the woman that his mouth drops. Because that bedraggled, tired looking woman in a dirty coat and a dress stained with blood is none other than…

"Marie-Claire! You look terrible, niece!" Louis exclaims.

"Thank you." His cousin replies dryly, though she does grace her cousin with a smile.

"As always, I'm happy to see you, but you could have cleaned yourself up for your king!" Louis is teasing. Sort of.

Marie-Claire's face instantly goes hard. She moves forward with a frown to stand in front of him. On her face he can see lines of sorrow now. They etch into her face around her eyes and in her forehead. Reluctantly the King realises that he is not going to like what his niece has to hell him.

"Jean is dead." De Boirgeaux cuts to the chase, like she usually does, "They wanted him to help with a coup of the throne. He refused."

For a moment the words do not land. He is tempted to ask her to repeat them, but he knows what he heard. Jean, his uncle – many times removed, but close to the family – is dead. Even worse, someone is coming for his throne. His mouth gapes a second or two, then it moves, to yell the only name that he wants to hear right now.

"ROCHEFORT!"

* * *

The five musketeers ride to the garrison. They're tired, aching, and they know that in a day or two they will be sent out again. This time to deliver not a letter, but a woman to the South of France. After some careful deliberation it was decided that it was unsafe in the palace for Marie-Claire, she is to be escorted to her other uncle, to stay with him. Also, as Moreau points out needlessly, to bring the sad news to her cousins and aunt who are staying there at the moment. D'Artagnan feels a pang of second hand pain from that. Bad news is never pleasant to pass on.

Not that the Gascon necessarily cares much at the moment. He mostly just wants to sleep.

Of course, that idea flies right off the table when the rides into the garrison and sees Aramis and Porthos leaning against the stable walls. The two of them smile brightly and wave him over the moment they see him. d'Artagnan just knows that their conversation will not be an easy one. There is no way that his two friends are going to avoid the subject 'Athos', especially because he denied their offers to come along on the mission.

As it turns out, the conversation does go straight to the subject of Athos, because what d'Artagnan forgets, as the walks out of the stables, is that he has an enormous bruise on his forehead from his opponents punch a few days ago. And a bloodstained sleeve. And two very overprotective friends.

Porthos frowns the moment he sees the bruise, with a brisk 'what did you do to yourself this time?' the allows Aramis to pass him and fumble at d'Artagnan's shoulder, trying to assess the damage. It takes about two seconds for the Gascon to get annoyed, and he pulls away just as quickly.

"Get off, Aramis. It's fine." He grumbles.

"Sure. Fine like that time you were almost blown to bits by Vadim?" Aramis asks sarcastically. Porthos tilts his head with a smirk.

With a sigh – is that number 10 today? – d'Artagnan lets the medic raid his shoulder, and his head. It's only when he sees Athos, who appears seemingly out of nowhere, that he pulls away completely. He Compte de la Fère's look is a mix of guilt, trepidation, and a strange sort of resignation that makes d'Artagnan's stomach turn. When the older man averts his eyes, d'Artagnan quickly takes his leave.

"I'm tired. Just going to head up to a bed." The Gascon mutters quickly, practically running (though stumbling is more likely, giving the weariness in his legs) to his chambers.

Athos carefully looks anywhere but into his friends eyes as he marches to a yet unknown location. Aramis and Porthos share a look. Athos is drinking himself to death. d'Artagnan is coming back from missions wounded.

This has got to stop.

* * *

Friends in a fight are annoying. Friends who are not necessarily in a fight, but are not really talking to each other either are even more annoying. Especially if whatever caused the fight is unknown. At least, that is Porthos' humble opinion. And yes, he is annoyed.

So, naturally he and Aramis have come up with a devious and irrefutably clever plan. They are going to lock the two troublemakers in the infirmary, which they have determined as the place in the garrison with the least weapons. Also, if the two errant musketeers decide to attack each other or their well doers, medical supplies are close at hand.

As Porthos enters the garrison a day after their youngest friend's return, his pockets are weighed down by his winnings from last night. d'Artagnan is descending the steps that lead to Treville's office. The young man stomps down the stairs impatiently, looking like the world has wronged him in the most fundamental way. His face holds the petulant look of a five-year-old who has just been told that he is not allowed any more sweets. Perfect. Time for their newest mission.

"What has you looking so grumpy this morning?" Porthos asks, swinging his arm over d'Artagnan's shoulders, steering him towards the infirmary. If all has gone according to plan, Athos is already inside, seething and probably attempting to murder Aramis.

"I'm not allowed to do anything today. I have to 'rest up', according to Treville." The disgusted tone in the Gascon's voice amuses Porthos to no end, and his boisterous laugh is enough to distract the boy long enough to get him right in front of the infirmary without him asking any questions.

Just when the boy frowns and starts protesting (something about 'definitely not hurt enough to be here'), an exhasperated voice sounds from behind the door.

"For the last time, Aramis." Athos intones, "I am thoroughly uninterested in your supposed 'love potion'."

D'Artagnan's eyes are suddenly comically wide as he turns away from the door. It's a good thing Porthos is strong, or he wouldn't have gotten the wriggling Gascon through the opening. Aramis, who is right inside the chamber, shoots them all a cheeky grin. There's a split second of surprise from Athos, and a disgruntled sigh from d'Artagnan. Then Aramis and Porthos are out the door. They barricade it setting two chairs before it, and sitting down on them.

Inside d'Artagnan is punching the door.

"I am going to kill you when I get out." The shouts angrily.

"Get in line." Athos adds, just loud enough for them to hear.

After a few fruitless minutes of banging the door, it quiets down in the room. Neither of the two stubborn men say anything for at least half an hour. Then Athos clears his throat.

"So." He drawls, "I think what our two soon-to-be-dead friends are trying to tell us, is that we need to talk."

D'Artagnan sighs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the characters in this chapter (specifically Athos) may come across as slightly OOC. This is partly due to plot purposes, but mostly due to the fact that this chapter was written from d'Artagnan's perspective and therefore shows only his point of view. Be warned, but don't let it deter you.

The infirmary has an anxious feel to it. Blood, sweat and tears have been spilled in this room, and the putrid smell they leave is barely masked by the too heavy scent of herbs. Men come here to die. You can feel it in your bones when you enter. Right now, though, the anxiety in the room has little to do with it's sad history. It is the two musketeers who stand facing each other, separated only by a bed, that notch up the tension.

d'Artagnan has yet to speak to Athos. In stubborn denial of the need to have this conversation, he presses his lips together. He has never been one to give in easily.

"d'Artagnan." Athos speaks, sacrificing his own dignity to start the conversation. "I said something, or did something some weeks ago to hurt you. I would like to know what it is."

"You honestly don't remember?" d'Artagnan can't help it. The very thought that the words that have been on his mind constantly are not even important enough to remember for his mentor is terrifying.

"No. I did tell you so before." There is a strange sort of desperation in the Comte's voice. d'Artagnan sniffs haughtily, ignoring mentor's silent plea for an answer.

"I'm sure it will come back to you." He says. There's an irrational anger in the Gascon's bones, and it is proving difficult to squash. Now, for the first time, Athos seems to lose his patience.

"Do you think I haven't tried?" He rants, "I've been trying to remember for the past fortnight, but there is just… nothing."

"I just… I think it might be better if you remember on your own." d'Artagnan voices hesitantly.

"I doubt that will happen very soon." Athos replies.

Right now they have reached an impasse. An important one, too. It gets on Athos' nerves and he's speaking before he can stop himself. Impatience is clear in his voice. He is tired, hung over and he wants to get this done with. So, he doesn't wait for d'Artagnan like he should have.

"So what exactly did I say that is so important?" Athos drawls, instead.

Something shifts in d'Artagnan. His entire stance changes, leaning over the empty bed. His eyes shoot fire as his voice goes low. Somehow in the few days that they were apart Athos had managed to forget how hot-headed the Gascon is. But there's a storm coming from him now, Athos can sense it.

"You want to know what you said? Well then, let me tell you what you said." d'Artagnan's voice is absolutely toxic, "You said that I'm not ready to be a Musketeer, that I am 'too emotional', too vulnerable and too young. Apparently I am not capable of seeing this terrible world for what it is, and therefore not mature enough for this regiment. You said that if I do not start looking at the world in a rational manner it will lead to not just my own death, but also that of those around me. You said - "

"That you are too reliant on us…" Athos whispers. Floaty memories come to the surface, a drunken haze filtering away all the light and the soft edges. A feeling of fear, terrible debilitating fear of losing this boy (no – man) that he has unwillingly let into his heart. "I remember that I said that to you. That you are too reliant on us."

Athos looks up at d'Artagnan questioningly, "Is that why you wanted to go on that mission alone? To prove you could do it on your own."

There is no answer from d'Artagnan, but that in itself is answer enough. Athos rubs his hand over his face, a headache is coming up, on top of the one he already had from his night of drinking.

"d'Artagnan…" he murmurs. "I am sorry if my words offended you. You must understand, however, that I was drunk at the time of this conversation. I meant nothing by it."

"Being drunk is _not_ an excuse." d'Artagnan replies heatedly, "In my experience alcohol tends to make people more honest."

"While that may be true, nothing that I said is so extreme that I would not have uttered it sober." Athos states, still infuriatingly calm. He's trying to reason with the Gascon, to get their friendship back under control. It is not strictly speaking true though, that everything Athos said would also have been said had the man been sober. d'Artagnan remembers with complete clarity the words after those questioning his skills as a musketeer. But those words, carved into his heart and echoing in his head, are not ones he is about to repeat. Still, that does not mean he does not remember them.

_"You've not changed much since you got your father killed," d'Artagnan flinches, but Athos doesn't seem to notice, "You're too hot headed, and one day it will get us all killed."_

_"You don't mean that." d'Artagnan whispers, voice cracking. He can't bring himself to look into his mentor's eyes._

_Athos leans closer then, his breath full of wine, and mumbles, "It all ends bloody d'Artagnan. We'll all die." At this point, the man grabs d'Artagnan's shoulders, pulling him so close that their noses almost touch. The younger musketeer wants to pull back and leave, but Athos' grip is surprisingly strong. d'Artagnan can no longer avoid looking into his mentor's eyes. "Remember that there is no dignity in that. There is no dignity in death…"_

_Finally, Athos' grip loosens, and d'Artagnan coils back like he's been burnt. He feels like he has. There is a great fiery hole where his heart used to be, and its smoke is making it difficult to breathe. He needs air. Now. Stumbling past a surprised Porthos, d'Artagnan flees._

Clearing his throat slightly, d'Artagnan asks, "Up until which moment do you remember, Athos?"

Athos' left eyebrow rises questioningly. "I remember telling you that you rely on us too much. Which, I admit, may have been a bit harsh. I do not recall you leaving." Now his left eyebrow falls along with his right one, plummeting into a worried frown, "Was there more that I said to you?"

If d'Artagnan shakes his head too quickly, Athos doesn't notice, too busy trying to recall the rest of his evening. The Gascon spends about half a second wondering why exactly he is not rubbing what his mentor said into his face, pointing out exactly how much the words _'since you got your father killed'_ echo in his mind and haunt his dreams.

When the chairs behind the door scrape, and Aramis murmurs something along the lines of ' _they won't really kill us, Porthos, don't be silly'_ , d'Artagnan remembers why.

Some things are unforgivable. Blaming d'Artagnan for his father's death, is one of those things.

On a subconscious level, he knows this. He knows Athos would never have said it, but the fact that he did, in such an offhand comment in his most vulnerable state, means that he does believe it. It's worse because d'Artagnan knows it's true.

Some things are unforgivable. Aramis and Porthos would never forgive Athos' words. Athos would never forgive Athos' words. The knowledge of those words would cause irreparable damage to the Inseparables' relationship, to Athos' self-esteem, and to d'Artagnan's dignity. Because, honestly, d'Artagnan is not sure he can repeat that conversation without a few tears.

And he does not want to cry, damn it. That would only further compromise his position as a musketeer. So he leaves the words unsaid, and the conversation unremembered. Instead, he feels his anger subsiding, leaving behind a cold emptiness as he looks up at his friend.

"It is not about what is true and what is not. It's about you not trusting my abilities. Not trusting me."

Athos, feeling less guilty by the second, can't help his frustration at d'Artagnan. The boy is overreacting. Yes, he said a few things he wasn't proud of, but that is no reason for d'Artagnan to run off into danger because he feels somehow mistreated. Athos says as much.

"You're being childish, d'Artagnan. You know very well that we trust you, and you will not 'prove yourself' or whatever you are trying to do by running off alone and getting hurt. The only thing you've proven now is that you get hurt on your own." Athos had meant that to come out as something proving their brotherhood, proving that the four of them need each other to survive. Still he can't help thinking it comes out sounding more like he's scolding a child.

Full of indignation, d'Artagnan wants to deny his words. The more he thinks about it, the more he realises that this is not so much about the pain in his heart (it wasn't like it was news that he'd gotten his father killed) and more about proving himself. Before he can get a word out, however, Aramis and Porthos casually walk through the infirmary door.

* * *

d'Artagnan decides that if everyone is going to call him hot headed, he might as well act it. He punches Aramis in the face before he's even fully in the room. Just the Spaniard's luck that he is the first through the door. Or, more likely, Porthos' tactical approach. To his credit, Aramis lets it happen with a shrug. Then he smirks.

"So have we got all the hurt feelings and angst out of the way?" he asks, way too cheerfully in Porthos' opinion. The larger man is watching d'Artagnan's hands; the Gascon may fit in him twice, but he packs a mean punch.

Athos and d'Artagnan reply simultaneously.

"Yes." The older man says.

"No!" the Gascon yells.

All three older musketeers turn to d'Artagnan, like three parents appraising a stubborn child.

"No?" Athos asks dimly.

"No!" d'Artagnan hadn't even felt his anger before he answered. "No, you're all treating this like it's nothing, like this can be talked away, but this isn't about just one evening!"

"It's not?" Porthos' question sounds like he's questioning whether his words are a statement or a query.

"Athos didn't mean what he said." Aramis asks, in what is probably supposed to be a helpful manner. It's not very helpful at all. "I'm sure he wasn't trying to hurt you."

And d'Artagnan knows that. He does. He's struck with a sudden clarity when he realises the others do not understand what this is about. None of this is about his hurt feelings. Well, not completely anyway. This is not about whether Athos meant what he said. It's not about drunken truths or angry mentors at all. _It's not about whether he got his father killed or not._

No, this is about that part in d'Artagnan that believes what the others tell him. That insecure part of him that takes their every word to heart.

It is about proving everyone wrong.

D'Artagnan _is_ ready. He _is_ capable of putting his mind over his emotions. And yes, he is going to _prove_ to everyone that he is worth being called a musketeer.

"It's about how you all look at me, how you see me and act around me." d'Artagnan tries to explain, "The sheer fact that you feel it is necessary to give me constant advice, to accompany me everywhere… It's like you don't trust me."

He is met with incomprehension. The three musketeers share one of those infuriating looks that encompasses an entire conversation and makes everyone else in the room feel left out. Apparently they have come to a conclusion, because they all turn back to their youngest brother.

"We trust you d'Artagnan. You know that. You know more about us than most others would ever find out. We've laid our lives in your hands more than once. How can you doubt our trust in you?" Athos replies, there is some kind of frustration in his voice.

"It's still different than it is with the others though, isn't it?" d'Artagnan's voice is calmer now.

"It is because of rash things like this that we find it sometimes difficult to place our full confidence in you d'Artagnan. You will grow out of it."

"This is exactly what I mean." d'Artagnan growls with an irritated swing of this arms, "You treat me like I'm a child, but you expect me to be independent. You tell me I need to grow out of my ways, but you stop me from any attempt at changing myself… It..." He breaks off with an huff.

Aramis' words have more bite now, he is clearly being affected by the tense atmosphere in the room as he speaks, "It might help if you actually listened to our advice once in a while d'Artagnan. Sticking with us is still the best way to learn."

The Gascon has never really had many problems with criticism. His father was an honest man, and being the down-to-earth farmer that he was, he was not sparse with his critical responses. The Inseparables, too, usually do not mince their words, be they good or bad. But even for a stubborn mule like d'Artagnan, there is a only a certain amount of disapproval he can take. Even as Aramis bites out his words, d'Artagnan feels his temper slipping from is grasp.

"I can't keep following you three around like a wounded puppy!" he spits the last part out. The disapproval on the faces of the three musketeers almost make him take back his words. Then, realising full well that he's saying it with the intention to hurt he growls, "Why don't you all realise that I don't need you anymore. Just because you feel the need to constantly belittle and dote on someone doesn't mean you should clutch me close and keep me from my full potential!"

The look of devastation and hurt on his brothers' faces make him flinch internally. That was harsh. But he can't help it, he needs some space, some air, some room to breathe. Because he's suffocating under their watchful eyes. His guilt is crushing him – _'since you killed your father',_ Athos' slurred words reverberate in his head with a constant stream of rainy skies and bleeding fathers… - and his brothers' compassion is smothering him.

Aramis' hurt quickly turns to anger, and his mouth opens to deliver a tongue-lashing when DuPont comes walking through the door. A look of surprise crosses his face when he sees the four musketeers crowding the small chamber and glaring death at each other.

With a surprised cough he turns to d'Artagnan, "Treville says we're to leave for the South of France in an hour."

It takes a moment for the words to mean something to the Gascon, but as soon as they've made their way through his hot anger, he nods. Right. The mission. Marie-Claire. A two-week journey without his brothers.

It's like a breath of air in a smoke-filled room.

Then DuPont turns to the three inseparables, "Treville wants you three to join us, to ensure Madame de Boirgeaux's safety."

Just like that, the air is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for being so late, uni caught up to me.


	5. Chapter 5

The forests around Paris are always lively. Even in the autumn, like today, there's a constant rustling of animals among the brush, a whistling of wind through the trees, a singing of birds. It's only the musketeers riding through the forest who are completely silent. Actually, it's four particular musketeers who ride silently, each fuming on their own horse and trying very hard to get their tempers under control. They're not being very successful.

With four musketeers in brooding stance, the remaining ones feel the need to be even louder than they usually are. As a group of eight musketeers and one noble woman, they make for quite a sight. Unsure of his position, d'Artagnan moves to ride next to Marie-Claire. She shoots him a knowing look, but she does not say anything. He appreciates that.

Athos rides in the front, next to Aramis. The medic is obviously still fuming from the argument earlier that day, waves of anger are streaming off of him. Athos understands. Really, he does. Aramis has an incessant craving for friendship and human contact. Especially after Savoy. That need for human contact means that more often than not he ends up in a stranger's bed at night. The spending of a night is only superficial and sporadic, though. It is in the musketeers that he finds what he truly needs. And now d'Artagnan has downright denied that necessity. Denied their brotherhood.

Porthos rides somewhere between d'Artagnan and his other two friends, ever a peace maker. He's hurt, too, by the Gascon's words, but he has always been a head-on sort of man. He does not distance himself to deal with his emotions quietly on his own. He faces them straight on so he can get them over with. Usually, this involves a lot of yelling and punching things, but then it does end rather quickly. Now, though, on a mission, is not the right time for a large fight. Porthos realises that all too well. Everyone needs to be in their best form and on their best behaviour. So he hovers somewhere in the middle of a confrontation and ignoring d'Artagnan entirely, hoping for at least some civility during their journey. The man finds distraction in Moreau and Vasser who kindly let him jump into their conversation.

DuPont and Petit share a look of understanding when they see the rift between four men who used to be brothers. Perhaps the Inseparables are not quite as inseparable as their name suggest. Perhaps this argument is temporary. There is only one thing that can be said for sure.

This is going to be a long journey.

* * *

 

With a slight tug of this reins Athos leads his horse further away from Aramis. He needs some time to think over his sentiments concerning the events before their departure. Time… and space. Space without his friend's brooding, but watchful gaze.

For that reason, Athos is grateful for the cold weather this autumn. Small clouds of warm air obscure his face with every breath. He knows that this cover will disappear in due time, their destination lies in the South, where the air is warmer and the autumns are mild. For now, though, he uses the white vapour to his advantage, hiding behind it and letting his thoughts consume him.

Athos feels... Well, he is not entirely sure what he feels. He knows it's not positive, though. Mostly he feels guilty, his words when he was drunk were harsh and unnecessary. But there's also an anger in his bones that infuriates him because of its the sheer irrationality. It's not that the idea of d'Artagnan not needing the Inseparables is ludicrous. Maybe they are keeping the boy too close, allowing him too little space to find out what he can become. As soon as he thinks that another thought comes to his mind unbidden.

_I don't need you anymore _,__ screams the d'Artagnan in his memory. Something surges inside his chest at that – a empty emotion that leaves his chest burning with hollowness. It is the same one he felt when he heard of his wife's treachery and lies. Betrayal. It's been laying deep on his heart for a while. Never more than today, though.

The betrayal is only eclipsed by the anger he felt before. d'Artagnan was being rude, and frankly absolutely full of himself. _You're keeping me from my full potential!_ It's so irrational, and so untrue that it Athos can't help the indignation he feels. Yes, Athos has said some things that he is not proud of, but this friend's deliberately hurtful words were as out of line as his.

d'Artagnan did not only place himself above his brothers, but he denied their importance. He denied there friendship. That, Athos admits to himself reluctantly, is a touchy subject. He feels no shame for his anger.

Or, he wouldn't if it was not for that uncomfortable niggling at the back of his mind. That annoying feeling that he has forgotten something, something very important. No doubt something that happened the night he offended d'Artagnan. Like a word that lurks at the tip of his tongue, the memory prowls just behind the boundaries of his mind. It is distinctly there, just not concrete enough to form.

It's not just a feeling though, there is some definite reason for the feeling. Athos may be at odds with his protégé, he may be angry at the boy and find his words both childish and insulting, but that does not mean that he does not still know the Gascon. Or know when the Gascon is hiding something.

Athos just hopes he will find out what before it is too late.

* * *

 

Every day, the weather gets better. The grounds are no longer frozen when they rest at night, and though there is still a distinct chill in the air every morning, it is no longer quite so numbing. d'Artagnan, for all his pain and anger, visibly perks up at the renewed strength of the sun. When he tilts back his head one afternoon to absorb as much warmth as he can, Athos feels a fondness for the boy that he hasn't felt in days. It warms him slightly, but it can't quite unfreeze his resentment.

Marie-Claire laughs in a very unladylike manner when she sees the Gascon bathing in the scarce warmth. "I'm guessing you're from the South, monsieur?" she asks with a smile. p Madame de Boirgeaux's mood has also grown kinder with the growing proximity of her family and the promise of safety. Originally from the South as well, she understands the happiness that a bit of warmth can bring after the months of rainy cold that are common in the more Northern part of France.

"Is it that obvious?" d'Artagnan asks with a grin. Marie-Claire, who has taken to riding next to the Gascon often, nods with a laugh. The two share a few anecdotes about the weather, and let their hearts soar for a few moments.

That is, until d'Artagnan sees Aramis' figure in front of him. The man is sat straight as rod on his horse, and the grip on his reins is white-knuckled. The Gascon still laughs, but his heart is no longer in it, weighed down by anger and guilt.

* * *

 

After a long week of riding, laughing, and brooding stares, the company of nine reaches the castle of Demaire. Tall and threatening, it looms over the landscape like a giant, ready to crumble anything that comes close. The place is old enough that it still shows signs of earlier defensive structures on the walls. The whole place is circled by a deep canal that can only be crossed by guarded bridge. In stark contrast is a quaint little village not two miles out. Rickety stone houses are surrounded by miles and miles of farmland. It is no surprise, therefore, that the inhabitants are farmers. What does come as a surprise is the look obvious animosity the musketeers receive from them. Marie-Claire de Boirgeaux, on the other hand, gets many a smile and cheerful greeting.

It takes one look at the noble woman for the seemingly impenetrable guard on the bridge to crumble. The noble woman is well known to the guards and they greet her with open smiles. With half a glance at their pauldrons, the musketeers are also let in. The court they enter is lively, people run to and fro. d'Artagnan can't help a quick thank you to God at finding that this place lacks the smell of death that he still carries in his nose from the manor where they found Marie-Claire.

The lord of the castle, who has walked out to meet them, is ecstatic to see his niece. Antione de Mausin is a large man, with a well-trimmed beard. He is dressed entirely in a deep colour blue that accentuates his light eyes. His hands are weighed down by so many rings that d'Artagnan wonders with some amusement how he even manages to raise his arms above his head. It's only when he sees the look on Marie-Claire's face that he realises the situation she is about to be thrown in. Her face is absolutely leeched of colour. All the relief at the familiarity of the castle has disappeared, leaving her with a worried look on her face. And d'Artagnan knows she has every right to the tension in her body.

After all, she brings a message of death.

* * *

 

Silence fills the dining hall where the musketeers meet up with Marie-Claire's remaining family. Only the youngest son of her dead uncle cries and cries like he can somehow sense that he'll never see his father again. The other four children are out playing tag through the halls, yet unaware of their loss. Jacqueline de Boirgeaux- Parcet sits at the dining table stoically, her face is drawn but she does not cry. She thanks the musketeers for saving Marie-Claire, who is like a daughter to her. Then, with a slightly wild swing of her head, she turns to her brother.

"We should tell them now, and send them back to Louis as soon as possible, Antione," She says, voice surprisingly strong. Some of the musketeers make eye contact at those words, though d'Artagnan is careful to avoid the Inseparables. Madame de Boirgeaux-Parcet's words sound ominous.

Before any of the King's men can even open their mouth, though, Marie-Claire asks sharply: "Tell us what?"

The lord of the house closes his eyes with a tired sigh, leaning back in his chair. He plays momentarily with a large ring on his finger before raising his head with a serious expression. The ridiculous attire of the man pales in the presence of his character now. Gone is the boisterous man who ran out to great his niece. The man who sits at the head of the table now is the King's uncle, a general to the previous king, and a trusted advisor to the current one. When he speaks his words are calm and deliberate, betraying the sorrow the man had in his eyes only moments before.

"Almost a week ago we, too were attacked by a group of men." He lets his eyes roam over the musketeers, searching for the one in charge. "These men were no ordinary bandits, they were skilled and driven. In their, admittedly foolish, attempt to breach my castle, we managed to capture two of the assailants. They are currently being kept in my dungeons under the highest possible guard."

The lord's eyes rest between Athos and DuPont, having recognised in them the natural leadership that comes with age and experience. He allows a moment for the words to sink in before he continues. "I had some of my guard question the men. They were played out against each other so we could get the full story. The story that came out is disconcerting. The men are part of a larger faction that undermines the position of the king. They are planning a coup d'etat."

When no one looks surprised at this large revelation Marie-Claire cuts in softly, "I heard them say something like that, and have already told the king. He has doubled the guard and already has men looking into the question. Doesn't he, Petit?" turns to ask the larger man, who nods.

"While I do not doubt the fortitude of the King's guard, or anyone he has looking into this treachery, I fear that they will not find the assailants before it is too late. This faction is smart, they do not intend to just barge into the palace, rapiers out and muskets blazing. Their plan is one of betrayal, from those whom Louis trusts above all. Both the men that attacked my castle, and those who attacked my sister's estate did so in order to recruit close family of the king. People who have no trouble walking into the palace, and closing in on the king." Antoine de Mausin argues.

"Then you have eliminated the threat, my lord." Athos' answer is simple.

"Sadly, no. Apparently this faction is quite aware of my loyalty, and were probably also of my brother-in-law's. We were fully expected to defy them and be killed. The real threat does not come from within France." Antione starts, and at the confused looks of the musketeers, continues, "As I understand it, King Louis will be welcoming and Earl from Sweden into his castle this week. This man is a far away cousin of the king's, but he has a claim to the throne if Louis were to perish. He plans to make that happen. The two grew up as friends. Louis will never see it coming."

"Then we must let him know!" d'Artagnan exclaims in shock, "Have you already sent out a messenger?"

Athos throws a disapproving look at his outburst. At the moment, d'Artagnan doesn't care. There could have been a coup by now. The king could be dead, the queen too. And the dauphin… he'll need to disappear as well if the earl wants to claim the throne. All d'Artagnan sees, though, is Constance. A million images flash in his mind. Constance dead, Constance captured, Constance bleeding, empty-eyed, waiting for execution...

He has already lost his brotherhood. And though Constance has never truly been his, he knows that her death would destroy him. It's almost more than he can handle, and right now, the only one who can do something about it is sitting in a chair and _sighing_ his time away. In his agitation d'Artagnan doesn't see Aramis going still and pale at the idea of Anne and the dauphin in danger, doesn't see him stumble at the weight of the images that assault him. He doesn't see Athos put a reassuring hand on Aramis' shoulder that says 'we'll save them' in a way that no words ever could. Nor does he see Porthos notice this silently and step up next to his brother, to take over when Athos needs to go back to being a leader.

What d'Artagnan does see, is a man who has knowledge of a dire situation, sitting back and doing _nothing_. So, he steps forward threateningly, ready to give the lord at the other end of the long table a piece of his mind. It's DuPont who stops him, shaking his head lightly, which only breaks d'Artagnan's heart more. It's Athos who does that, usually. Athos who holds him back with a soft touch while Aramis' eyes twinkle and Porthos tries to make his chuckle sound a like a cough. The trio doesn't to that now, they don't even seem to notice him.

But really, d'Artagnan has to remind himself, that was what he wanted right?

Antione de Mausin's eyes flicker at the musketeers implicit accusation, "I did. His head was thrown over the walls yesterday."

Vasser loudly sucks in a breath behind d'Artagnan. He whistles softly at their opponents' cruelty. Some of the others look shocked, or worried at how far these men will go for their cause. d'Artagnan, though, opens his mouth. After all he does have a brash and impulsive reputation to maintain.

"We'll tell the King. We'll leave right now." It's out before he can even think about it. Even once it's said, there's not a single fibre of his being that regrets his words.

"It'll be dangerous." de Mausin drones, "You will not come out of this unscathed, maybe not even alive…"

"No offence, Monsieur," Moreau says in his usual loud drawl, "But we're musketeers; danger is in our job description."

"Of course if anyone wants to stay…" Porthos says with a chuckle.

Nobody does.

* * *

 

The musketeers enjoy one night in the luxurious castle, in the agreement that they are of no use to anyone dead on their feet. d'Artagnan sleeps badly, his entire being is thrumming in anticipation of their coming journey. His worry for Constance lets him forget, momentarily, the situation between him and the Inseparables. Everything fades to the distance at the thought of the woman he loves. Aramis also lies awake, staring at the ceiling in terror. Terror for the women he loves, for her son. For his son. The others do not fare much better in terms of sleep. Athos and Porthos cannot keep their thoughts off the strife within their little family.

They sleep a grand total of three hours, combined.

When morning comes, bathing the castle with a deceptively cheery sun, the musketeers ready their horses efficiently. Some of the castle's staff has crowded around them, helping here and there, but mostly just seeking a moment of reprieve in their days' work. The Musketeers mean to ride off as soon as they can. If they hurry, they can reach Paris in five days. Just as they're all mounting their horses, Antoine de Mausin stops them. In his hand he holds a parchment with his seal on it. In it, written in his delicate script, is everything he told the musketeers.

"In case Louis does not believe you." He states solemnly. For a moment he hesitates, deliberating. Who should carry the proof? The tends towards two of the older men, trusting their experience.

Then his gaze passes over the youngest of the group. d'Artagnan if he recalls correctly, with a slight Gascon accent and eyes full of impatient fire. This is the man who openly questioned his motives the day before, not out of insolence, but out of a deep loyalty that seems overpowering in its sheer magnitude. Whether the loyalty is to the King or to someone else doesn't matter much. De Mausin spent 15 years as a general. He knows soldiers. He knows men. And he can see that this man holds not only a ferocious loyalty, but also a fierce will to prove himself. The combination makes for an unstoppable force. He hands the letter over.

"The king _must_ receive this letter. Everything depends on it." For a moment the man looks surprised, taken aback by the responsibility. It does not last long, however, and soon a look of fierce determination comes over his face. He nods. And de Mausin knows that this time, the letter will reach the palace. Whatever the cost.

The musketeers steer around the crowd that has gathered in the court, almost knocking over a woman's laundry basket. Then, they're riding through the gates, over the bridge heading straight North.

With the letter tucked firmly over his heavy heart, d'Artagnan rides between his fellow musketeers. He may be at odds with some of them, right now they are united in their need to save the King.

At least, he hopes they are.

* * *

 

Somewhere deep in the castle, a washerwoman sneaks through the halls. She glides through the servant quarters, nearing the South side entrance. With a basket of laundry in her arms, she smiles at everyone she passes. Outside, by the stream, she dunks her clothes into the cold water. A thick-set man comes up beside her. There's a fishing net in his hands, but the stream is too small to carry fish.

"The musketeers, they're heading to Paris," the servant whispers, never looking up from the clothes she's scrubbing. "They carry a letter with de Mausin's seal."

The man's lips curl up in a murderous smirk. "Which road did they take?" he asks softly.

"The same one they came from." The man's smirk grows wider. He throws some coins into the laundry basket, and doesn't look back. The laundry woman doesn't turn to look at the money in the basket until she can no longer hear the man's footsteps. For a moment she wonders at the significance of what she has said, at the consequences. Then she remembers her husband's broken leg, and the healer she can now pay for. The coins are tucked into her dress, and the rest of the clothes are washed. There is nothing to regret.

The man circles around the castle and starts making plans. The king must not get that letter. He smirks again. He'll enjoy fighting some musketeers.

Even better, he'll enjoy killing them.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 is here, enjoy!

 

Tension weighs down the autumn air. The clouds look more threatening than usual, and the cold has a menacing instead of a refreshing feel to it. An oppressive silence hangs over the musketeers as they hasten back to Paris, one that hushes even the loud voices of Vasser and Moreau.

d'Artagnan can feel the letter burning against his chest. He's warmed by the thought that a great general has handed him the responsibility of carrying it. Unwilling to disappoint the man, he knows he will deliver it. And if that has a lot to do with saving the woman he loves and proving his capability to the musketeers, then that makes for a nice bonus.

They're nearing the edge of a forest when d'Artagnan first sees Athos look around in suspicion. He can't help but turn his head as well, searching for the source of the man's misgiving. There's nothing, though, just empty fields, muddy from rain that the musketeers have thankfully just missed out on. One last sweep of the area behind them yields nothing but an earthy brown expanse that reaches far into the horizon where the brown turns into a dark grey that stretches up forever.

No sign of anyone.

With a resolute dig of his boots into his horse's flank, he directs the mare back in the right direction. His thorough look back has left him lagging slightly behind the rest of the group, who have almost reached the first trees of the woods. The clicks his tongue to sway his horse to put on some speed. The forest before them stands alight with the fiery colours of fallen leaves. It stands in stark contrast with the murky landscape they're leaving behind them.

The brightness looks promising, and he can't help it. Just as he makes his way into the forest he lets his heart soar with hope that this colour bodes well for the future.

Behind them, another group of men emerge on the horizon, in time to see the blue of the musketeers rushing into the trees. The leader of the group signs for his lieutenant to take half of the group and continue following the Musketeers. Then he pulls his hat down further over his eyes, and motions for the rest of the group to follow him down a smaller path on the right.

After all, the best way to catch prey, is to set a trap.

* * *

Once in the forest, Athos lags behind, making sure everyone has entered the woods before he makes his way back. Dismounting quickly, he approaches the edge of the trees. Peering from behind on of the larger ones, he sees a group of riders appear along the horizon. That is enough to get him rushing back to his horse, fully intending to catch up with his fellow travellers.

The winding forest path that they are following is narrow, surrounded by trees and higher outcrops that make it an ideal place for an ambush. With a bit of luck, Athos will draw near his friends in time to warn them of a potential attack before it takes place. Once he reaches his horse, however, he realises how foolish he has been. Of course the Musketeers would all wait for him to come back.

When he raises his eyebrow at Porthos, who is holding his horse in place, the large man merely shrugs. "You didn't really think we'd let you or your horse just disappear right?"

Athos smirks slightly as he gets into his saddle. "Thank you. But we really have to get going."

"We'll only tire our horses this way." DuPont points out, taking note of Athos' increased speed.

"Yes, but we need to get out of this forest," Athos replies, "We're being followed."

That's enough to get the musketeers to put on a burst of speed, as far as that is possible on the winding forest road.

* * *

Not even an hour passes before they meet a crossing in the road. Their narrow path is intersected by a larger one, wider and lighter, leading west. They know, from the maps they studied before leaving Paris, that both roads lead out of the forest, eventually turning North and intersecting again right before Auxerre. In Auxerre, a small town they have pass through before getting home, they can easily get some fresh horses for the rest of the journey.

But which to take? They are being followed, so it is prudent to take the shortest route. However, that route is the left one, the narrow path that makes for such an easy ambush. Too dangerous. But the larger path takes longer, and it will also be the one their pursuers expect them to take, precisely because it is less dangerous. The men dismount to spare their horses while the deliberate.

"We must split up. Two groups of four." Athos decides, and of course everyone agrees. It is after all the best choice. Splitting the groups however, does not yield nearly as unanimous a decision.

The natural way for the groups to form is to split into the Inseparables and the rest. Which is problematic for at least half the group. Even on an important mission it is difficult to push off the feelings of anger and regret the friends harbour towards each other. There is a moment of uncomfortable silence, while everyone assesses the circumstances. The inseparables think of how to broach the subject, and the others try to figure out how to escape the awkward situation.

This mission is turning out rather uncomfortable, not because the king's life is at stake, but because a group of friends are at odds. That's what happens when big personalities mix, DuPont thinks.

It is d'Artagnan who first breaks the silence.

"How about I go with DuPont, Vasser and Moreau, and Petit joins Porthos, Aramis, and you?" The Gascon suggests innocently. Petit looks slightly surprised, and maybe a little offended that d'Artagnan doesn't want him in the group. When d'Artagnan sends him a pleading look he realises, however, that d'Artagnan hopes he will diffuse the situation with the inseparables. It is not him, or any of d'Artagnan's 'newer' friends who protests, however. It's Athos.

"No." the comte states resolutely.

"Yes." d'Artagnan replies, equally firm, "It would really be for the best."

"No." Athos replies again.

DuPont catches Petit's eye. He motions with his head to where they came from.

"I saw a stream down there," he says, "It might be a good idea to water the horses before we go our separate ways…"

Petit hears the undertone. _Let's leave them to fight this out._ And he pulls a confused Moreau and Vasser with him to 'water the horses'.

d'Artagnan is left alone with his friends. _If you can still call them that,_ a treacherous voice whispers in the back of his mind. They stare at each other intensely. Or, Athos and d'Artagnan stare at each other intensely, while Aramis and Porthos stand by and worry. Aramis for the woman and son he might never see again, and Porthos for the friendship he is terrified he of losing.

"Athos…" d'Artagnan starts, letting out a deep sigh that betrays a weariness far beyond his years, "You know I'm right."

"If you wish to ride the longer route with Vasser, Moreau and DuPont, no one will stop you." Athos answers, having thought it through and knowing that there is no rational reason not to let d'Artagnan ride with the others. There is also that niggling feeling of resentment that wants to let d'Artagnan do what he wishes.

"We won't?" Porthos hedges quietly, staring at Athos.

"No," Athos says for the third time in as many minutes, "I believe d'Artagnan is perfectly capable of riding with people other than us."

d'Artagnan narrows his eyes slightly, trying to figure out whether Athos is insulting or complimenting him. The comte is a complicated man, and the line between offense and praise is nearly indistinguishable at times.

"Aramis, what do you think?" Porthos asks. Perhaps the marksman can talk some sense into the others with his silver tongue.

Aramis looks distracted when he answers, sick almost with a worry that neither Porthos or d'Artagnan can quite place. He shakes his head slightly, and looks up from the musket he has been obsessively cleaning ever since they left the castle.

"I believe d'Artagnan made perfectly clear the other day that he is an adult – a musketeer – and that he can very well do anything he pleases without us." d'Artagnan almost physically flinches at the Spaniard's words, and manages to stop himself from doing so only for the sake of his pride, "He's right, too. We should take the fastest approach, and this is it."

Porthos shoots the man an incredulous look. d'Artagnan's words have hit all of them hard, but he thought that Aramis would have just let the words glide of him. His skin is usually not thin enough to find insult in words spoken in anger. It probably has a lot to do with whatever is worrying the man so. Something is setting him on edge, and it's coming out harshly. Words have always been one of Aramis' best weapons, he lets them stab and maim when he is hurt. Porthos knows the Spaniard will regret them later. Probably as much as Athos is regretting his.

"However," Athos continues easily, as though d'Artagnan choosing others over them does not affect him at all, "I would then urge you to let us deliver the letter. As you said, we will most likely arrive more quickly."

"No." the sheer vehemence with which d'Artagnan disagrees takes Athos aback for a moment, "You are always telling me 'head over heart'. You were right in splitting up, and you know it is best to divide the options between our groups. I have the letter, so Louis will believe me. The three of you and Petit are known in court and you will be believed regardless. This is our best chance at succeeding."

It _is_ the most reasonable thing to do. Aramis immediately gives a twitchy nod, impatience evident in his every move. No, he does not want to lose d'Artagnan, but Anne and little Louis are in more danger now. They have priority in his mind at the moment. And maybe he's still bit angry about what d'Artagnan said. And maybe he's letting it come out in the way he is treating the Gascon. There's only so much he can worry about at once, he's only human after all.

Athos has to sway for the logic of the plan. Though he hates that he will not know what is happening to d'Artagnan, some distance may be good for all of them. Head over heart, like d'Artagnan said. He thinks later that his reasoning behind his decision might not have been entirely rational after all. Maybe it's not just d'Artagnan who's trying to prove something, Athos muses. Maybe Athos wants to prove _d'Artagnan_ wrong. The thought is fleeting though. Because though there may be a part of him that wants the Gascon to be wrong, that wants the Gascon to need them, Athos knows with a certainty he has rarely felt in his life that despite his anger towards d'Artagnan, he can never truly wish any harm on the boy.

The others return, sooner than expected. The arguing has evidently stopped, so everyone starts mounting their horse, assuming that they will be doing what d'Artagnan suggested, or they would have been told otherwise. Vasser shoots Petit a pitying look, the man has got himself wrapped up in some sort of family drama and he is obviously unamused. Still, the four of them talked when they went to water the horses, and the general consensus was that though there may be irrational reasons behind the way they are splitting up, it is rationally a good plan. The best in fact. And that is the only reason that they have not protested the decision that d'Artagnan has made and everyone else has evidently agreed to.

Everyone, that is, except Porthos, who doesn't mount his horse quite yet. Instead, he grabs d'Artagnan's arm and turns the boy towards himself.

"d'Artagnan. You know this is going to end badly." Porthos tries one last time.

"It's the best way. They'll think that you have the letter, and go after you, they'll never expect me to have it, I should go with the less experienced looking group." d'Artagnan reasons easily.

"That's not the real reason, and you know it." Porthos growls, anger finally getting the best of him.

d'Artagnan's face softens slightly, whatever mask he's had up for days slipping. No sooner does Porthos see it, though, and it's back up. There's a set to the Gascon's jaw that he recognises. He knows the boy is never going to give in now.

"Maybe, but it's still the best choice." d'Artagnan repeats, like he has been doing since he started speaking.

Porthos shakes his head. "I'm angry too, d'Artagnan. And trust me when I say we are going to have nice talk about this when we're back in Paris. But this is rash, and stupid, and I just know we're all going to regret this later."

When Porthos says talk, he can mean anything from a friendly conversation to a fist fight, as d'Artagnan very well knows.

"I'm not going to change my mind Porthos. And neither are the others." d'Artagnan replies with a haughty air that makes Porthos' skin crawl. It is very unlike d'Artagnan, and very much like the tone he had when they were in the infirmary.

It's enough to finally get Porthos to lose is admittedly strong patience. He knows he can't punch the boy in the face right now because everyone needs to be fit on a mission. That doesn't mean he can't passive aggressively show he disagrees with the boy.

"Fine." He breathes instead, through clenched teeth, "Fine."

He's about to turn around in anger when d'Artagnan says one last thing, "Some time apart will probably be a good thing." It's said softly, meant only to pacify Porthos, and the larger man knows that.

It's what sways the large man in the end. They need to think. Aramis needs to get whatever has him tense and coiled as a snake out his system and Athos needs to come to terms with the new dynamics. d'Artagnan, well, he probably just needs to cool down, spend a while thinking about their argument without them sitting on his lips. As for Porthos, he still needs to let d'Artagnan's words from a week and a half ago sink in. Time apart _will_ do them good.

Still, when the group splits and Porthos sees d'Artagnan disappearing to the left of him, he can't quite shake the feeling that they are going to regret this.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble finds some Musketeers.

d'Artagnan rides next to DuPont in silence. They've taken the left hand road, which is wider and more accessible than the right one. Beside the road the trees are sparse with large distances between the them that allow for blankets of fallen leaves. There's more light, too, in this area.

DuPont scrapes his throat. "So," he says, "I couldn't help but notice that there is some… discourse between you and your friends."

d'Artagnan doesn't look away from the path in front of them. He's eerily aware that behind him Moreau and Vasser have also stopped their conversation to listen in. He does not want to have this conversation. At all.

Or maybe he does. He doesn't really even know anymore. A few things, he does know, though. He knows is that he needs to show the world that he can handle being a musketeer. He knows that his heart aches with anger at his friends. He knows that his heart is weighed with a worry for Constance. And he knows that there are a few words from Athos that the does not want to think about ever again.

All these things, he knows. They're hardly something he would usually share with anyone, not with his friends, and certainly not with anyone who is not an brother, Treville, or Constance.

He has to say something, though, so he murmurs, "Yeah. We had an… argument."

An uncomfortable silence falls again, no one really knowing what to say.

DuPont awkwardly tells d'Artagnan, "If you wish to talk about it, you may. If you do not, that is also fine." It's clear from his slightly desperate tone that he would by far prefer the latter. d'Artagnan almost smiles at that.

Suddenly Vasser cuts from behind, "I can tell they still care, you know. And that you do too."

For d'Artagnan it feels like someone is lifting something heavy off his chest with one hand, and stomping down on it with the other. He doesn't know what to say. No one does.

And as Vasser's unexpected wisdom seems to have suddenly run out, they ride on in silence.

The air is slightly less tense, but the worry in d'Artagnan's heart is greater than ever.

* * *

Porthos sees Athos' horse round the corner. That is the only way in that he can manage to follow the narrow path that they're on. At times the turns are very abrupt, or the path slants upwards in such an angle they almost doubt their horses abilities to make it to the top. Those are times when Porthos just follows whoever is in front of him because he simply cannot see where the path is going.

Aramis and Athos ride up front, Petit and Porthos in at the back. It strikes Porthos as funny for a moment that they seem to have automatically sorted alphabetically. Even funnier, is how large Petit is. Porthos can't help but think that there is no name that could have suited the man worse. Slightly disgruntled at being left behind by d'Artagnan, and being kept out of some large secret by his other two friends, Porthos welcomes the company of Petit.

When the wind picks up and the musketeers walk through a shower of fiery leaves, Porthos lets himself forget for a moment the situation they are in. He loves autumn, its warm colours mixed with the grey of the emptiness of the trees. It's not something he got to see often as a child, and he revels in it now, when he can.

Petit speaks, suddenly, "I know you're worried about d'Artagnan." And Porthos really wants to punch him in the face for bringing that up right when he was trying not to think about it, but he doesn't and the man continues, "But I'll have you know that Vasser and Moreau are two of the finest soldiers I have ever seen, including you and myself. And DuPont can handle just about any enemy, you know that." Porthos does know that, having fought alongside DuPont once or twice.

"As for d'Artagnan," Petit continues, "I saw him fight back at the manor, I'm pretty sure he can hold his own."

"So?" Porthos asks, though his heart already feels slightly lighter with something like pride at d'Artagnan's competence.

"So, maybe you should stop worrying about him, and start worrying about us. We're travelling the more dangerous road after all."

Porthos nods with a laugh. Petit about as subtle as a hammer, but Porthos can't deny that the man's words do make him feel better.

* * *

Aramis is squinting his eyes now to be able to make out the road. More like path. Or piece-of-forest-ground-that-looks-slightly-more-well-trodden-than-the-rest. It's not dark yet, but dusk is fast approaching, and under the cover of the trees it grows dark earlier than in the wide fields they passed before. The leaves may have fallen from the branches, but the wood is still thick and lets little sunlight through.

And Aramis wants to hurry. He really does. He wants to get back to the palace, make sure Anne and the dauphin are alright. And the king, too, he adds as an afterthought. He's committed enough treason, and he's not going to let any other treacherous thought escape unnoticed. So, yes, he truly wants to make haste. But even he can see now that, well, that he _can't_ see now, and that they should probably stop before they are enveloped by darkness.

He's just about to call back and suggest they stop when a shot rings through the forest.

All three musketeers duck and guide their horses to the side of the road in a desperate search for cover. There is none, only sharp rock and trees that are too high up to reach. For horses at least.

Another shot.

"DISMOUNT!" Someone shouts. Probably Athos. "LOOK FOR COVER AND FIND THOSE MEN!"

The orders seem completely at odds with each other. Hide away, and look for men… The contradiction does not seem to be a problem for the musketeers, they do exactly what Athos suggests.

They dismount, and Aramis sets himself up behind his horse, pointing his musket in the general direction that the thinks he heard the shots coming from. Porthos comes up behind him, handing him his own musket.

"Won't be needing this," he proclaims cheerily, "How about you work your magic on it?"

"What do you mean you won't be needing it?" Aramis asks, perplexed.

Porthos grins toothily, he points at Petit behind him and says, "Me and 'Petit' are gonna circle around and get them from the back, draw 'em out so you can shoot them."

Petit grins as well, and the two men stalk away. They look like boulders, tall, broad and virtually unbeatable. Aramis is almost sorry for their attackers, they're in for quite a scare.

Athos slinks up beside Aramis. There haven't been any shots in a while. The men silently wonder what their opponents are planning.

"What if they're on this side of the road as well?" Aramis asks Athos, suddenly worried of being subject to the same procedure that Porthos and Petit are giving their ambushers.

"They're not." The comte replies simply, and Aramis believes him. Not because Athos can know, but because Aramis can't afford it to be any other way.

A shout sounds over the hill that Aramis is aiming at. Men start emerging on the hill, some tumbling down it. In the background there's a gleeful, cackling laughter. He smiles, worries about his loved ones momentarily forgotten. _Porthos is enjoying this a bit too much,_ he thinks.

Men start running down the hill now that their cover is blown. Their swords are out, and they're ready to attack.

Aramis takes aim at a particularly fast runner. He blows at the fuse of this musket. _I've been polishing you for a week,_ he thinks, _you had better work, darling._ He looks over the top of his horse, aims and shoots. Then he picks up Porthos' pistol and does the same. Two men go down gracefully. Another goes down, less gracefully, but very effectively, by Athos' shot.

They run out to the oncoming attackers, and fight.

Athos turns out to be right. They're only on one side of the road. While they are skilled fighters, they have an absolute lack of tactics. However, they are persistent, unwilling to stop until they're dead. Within 15 minutes they've won the skirmish. Six men dead, one dying, one running, and one their captive.

The captive is an unlucky man.

* * *

The captive is tied up against a tree, blood seeping from a wound in his head, and his arm bent at an angle that, even trussed up, it should not be in. Four musketeers tower over him. Athos and Porthos up front, Petit slightly to the side – still unsure of his place in this tight-knit group. Aramis is pacing behind them.

"Question him already!" the Spaniard hisses impatiently. Not loud enough for their captive to hear, but loud enough for Porthos to send him an amused glare. The amusement is clearly not mutual, and as Athos starts talking, Porthos turns back to their prisoner, disappointed in Aramis' lack of humour.

"Who are you?" Athos asks simply, polite as always.

"Jean d'Aubier." The man replies cheekily.

"No. Not you specifically. You plural." Athos is completely unfazed by the man.

"We don't have a name."

"Then who do you work for?"

"That is none of your business." d'Aubier snarls back. Athos, apparently, disagrees. He looms over the man, grabs his broken arm and squeezes it slightly.

"I think it is." He suggests. d'Aubier cries out in pain, but stubbornly shakes his head. He continues to do so, even when Athos starts turning the broken bone.

"Doesn't seem like he wants to tell us anything." Porthos begins their charade easily.

"No, it would seem he's rather stubborn." Athos replies in the same neutral tone.

"Arm's not looking too good though," Porthos continues, "What do you think Aramis, you're our medic after all."

Aramis moves closer, his impatience and worry gone momentarily as he eases into a scenario that he is well-acquainted with. Squinting at the arm he winces slightly. Then he tuts.

"I can probably salvage the arm. But if he doesn't talk, I might as well not." Aramis states.

"Yes, a waste of time if you ask me." Porthos replies.

"Might have to amputate. That will keep him alive longer so we can question him." Aramis lies, obviously. It's not as obvious to their prisoner, apparently; he pales significantly.

"Maybe he'll talk if we cut it off while he's awake!" Porthos suggests triumphantly.

Jean d'Aubier turns white as a sheet. His eyes scan between the two men looking down at him. They're discussing his amputation like it's something they do every day. They seem serious about it too. And suddenly, the man feels his loyalty towards his leader waning.

"Bernard Chassroi!" he practically screams, "I work for Bernard Chassroi! I'll tell you what you need to know, just leave me in one piece!"

The musketeers nod, and their captive launches into a long story. He's a recruit of Bernard Chassroi, a local lord who has connections with the Swedish earl who is planning the king's coup. Not much of a loyalist to Louis XIII, d'Aubier decided to join this group for some money.

"What of the Queen and the Dauphin?" Aramis asks urgently. It is a good question, but when Athos shoots their friend a warning look, Porthos feels like he is out of his depth. He remembers, of course the budding romance between Aramis and Anne, but he really hopes that it has never gone further than romance. The look on Athos' face though shows a more than anything that the comte knows something about Aramis that he's not sharing. Porthos can't help but feel slightly offended. After all, he is usually the one that Aramis confides in, the closest of the Spaniards close friends. And that he hasn't done so… It makes Porthos nervous and slightly afraid of what he doesn't know. That is one reason he doesn't ask, hasn't asked over the past few months.

The second reason is that he knows Aramis will tell him once he needs to know.

"We don't kill children." Their captive bites out in disgust. Fair enough, Porthos thinks. The man may be a treacherous scoundrel, but at least he has some feeling of honour. Athos will like that.

"And the queen?"

"We don't kill women either."

"She's not a woman, she's the queen." Athos replies easily, and Porthos suddenly remembers saying almost exactly those words to Aramis a year or so ago.

"Yes, she is the queen. But from what I've heard," even with his arms tied tightly behind him and his face black and blue, the man leans in closer and says in an almost conspiratorial whisper, "And between you and me, I've heard quite a lot, the Scandinavian Earl in the castle's quite taken by the queen. Adores her even, 'ccording to my captain."

Petit is nodding in the background, then suddenly chips into the conversation, "I've heard that said actually. The earl and the queen get along well. And the earl is childless, so he'll want to have the dauphin be his heir."

"Wouldn't the dauphin become king as soon as Louis died?" Porthos questions, slightly surprised by the man's political knowledge.

"Yes, but the earl would be regent." Athos answers calmly. He kicks their captive, "Wouldn't he?"

The man nods, pained grimace on his face. There is a truth to the man's words that the musketeers sense automatically from years of searching for it. And the story fits.

The men share a look and it is agreed quietly that their captive is telling the truth. Tension drains from Aramis' features, his shoulder's slumping like a large weight has just been taken from them.

Then d'Aubier, nervous and still wanting to prove his honesty, decides to share another piece of information and the tension is right back. He tells them that as second in command he was sent this way to capture or kill the musketeers, while Chassroi went the other way with the other half of the company.

Athos' heart jumps to his throat at the thought of d'Artagnan being ambushed. Porthos has to restrain himself not to shake the man to get information about the other half of the company's plans.

"They were to be ambushed too?" he asks instead, "When? Where?"

"I suggest you tell him." Athos says, his voice low but more dangerous than Porthos has ever heard it.

d'Aubier nods quickly, "Only in a day or so! I'll bring you there if you let me go!"

It's decided that they will spend the night sleeping here, and leave next thing tomorrow morning. d'Aubier will show them a short cut to the other road and bring them to their musketeer friends in exchange for his freedom.

* * *

Athos dreams that night, vivid and emotional.

_Athos eyes d'Artagnan. The boy looks back in frustrated defiance, obvious disagreement with Athos' previous remarks written all over his face._

_It's the anniversary of Thomas' death. Years after his little brother was ripped away from him he has, through the mercy of a god he scarcely believes in anymore, been granted another brother. Not the same as Thomas, but so similar. So young and open and ready to take on the world. Thomas never got to take on the world as a consequence of his naivety._

_And Athos needs to stop d'Artagnan from meeting the same end. Needs to make clear to the Gascon that he cannot die. If he does, he'll drag everyone around him down with him in their grief. If not in a literal, then in a figurative death._

_It's these thoughts, desperate and painful, that drag the next words out of him. With a thick tongue he stumbles over his words, they flow out with a slur as he says, "You've not changed much since you got your father killed," he takes a moment ponder the sentence because it came out different than he wanted it to. But the words fade before he can change them, and he's launching into the next sentence, getting to what he really wants to say._

_"You're too hot headed, and one day it will get us all killed." If Aramis doesn't manage it with the treason he's committed, Athos thinks bitterly._

_"You don't mean that." d'Artagnan whispers, averting his eyes. Athos can hear the crack in the young man's voice, and he wants to take back his words. Of course that hot headedness will not get them all killed. But it will get d'Artagnan killed, and that's practically the same thing._

_So he leans closer to d'Artagnan, tries to bring the point across, "It all ends bloody, d'Artagnan. We'll all die." d'Artagnan needs to realise how utterly mortal he is, how utterly terrible the world is, and how utterly devastated Athos will be if d'Artagnan dies before him. In order to bring the message across more clearly, the comte grabs d'Artagnan's shoulders, and moves their faces closer together, forcing the Gascon to look him in the eyes._

_"Remember that there is no dignity in that. There is no dignity in death…" Athos intones. Please, he hope he brings across. Please. Don't. Die. Athos knows he cannot survive that._

_At d'Artagnan's stricken look he lets the boy go. d'Artagnan coils back like he's been burnt, stumbling back and leaving the tavern. He can handle that, d'Artagnan leaving. Maybe, he relents, maybe it's not the hot headedness that killed Thomas, that will kill d'Artagnan. Maybe it's him. Maybe it's proximity to Athos and the danger he always seems to bring._

_Yes. Athos tries to convince himself. He can handle a life without d'Artagnan, as long as he knows the boy is alive and well._

Athos wakes up cold with sweat. He sits up in an attempt to clear his head from the cobwebs of sleep, wishing fleetingly for the cold basin of water he always keeps by his bed. He hopes with all the hope he can muster that his nightmare just now was nothing more than a dream.

But it doesn't fade, doesn't lose the drunken haze over it. And Athos knows. He just _knows_ that that was a memory.

'You will get us all killed' he hears himself say, heart clenching at the truth that he bent to its very breaking point with that sentence. Still, that is not the sentence that is roaring in his head, drowning any cognitive thought or rationality.

'Since you got your father killed.' He said that. Athos told d'Artagnan that he got his father killed. He didn't mean to say those words, that is one thing he is absolutely certain of. Not because he thinks he can keep himself in control when he's drunk, or out of some form of kindness. No, he knows because there is not a single part of his being that ever thought d'Artagnan responsible for his father's death. In any way.

A slip of the tongue, that's all it was. It breaks cracks into his heart, though, and burns his thoughts in fiery anguish. Because d'Artagnan didn't hear a slip of the tongue, of that Athos is also sure. d'Artagnan heard a confirmation of his deepest fear and guilt. And Athos wants to punch himself for confirming it for the Gascon.

Over the low burning fire Aramis shoots him a concerned look, but the Spaniard doesn't pry. God knows the man has enough on his mind at the moment. Athos shakes his head for good measure, though. He realises now that d'Artagnan's need to prove himself lies not just in his friends being overbearing, but in the need to prove to Athos, and probably to himself that he can rise above the death of his father. Maybe relieve the renewed guilt he feels over his father's death.

He looks around at his three fellow travellers, unaware as they are of being in the vicinity of a monster.

He doubts Porthos and Aramis will ever forgive him for this.

He knows he will never forgive _himself_ for this.

He also knows that d'Artagnan probably will.

* * *

Athos does not sleep a wink that night. When the sun rises, pale and cold, he's already up and about, gathering the few supplies he unpacked and getting ready for the journey. Porthos shoots first him, then Aramis a quizzical look. He gets a shrug from the Spaniard, and a shake of the head from the comte. Great.

It is a good thing that the whole group is in a hurry, or Athos would probably have left on his own. It's unnecessary to do so though, as they all want to get back as soon as possible to their friends. Their friends, who hopefully have not been ambushed. Who hopefully are not dead.

The worry is in all their eyes.

 _Don't be dead, d'Artagnan,_ Athos thinks with as much power as he can muster. He feels a vague guilt in his gut that he's worrying so little about the Gascon's fellow travellers, but the feeling is overshadowed by the clawing monster in Athos' chest that will not grant him any peace. Athos has rarely felt so much fear and guilt simultaneously. Only when he hung his wife and when he found Thomas broken on the floor did Athos ever feel like this.

He hopes that this time the feeling will not end in someone's death.

Usually one to measure his words, careful and unwilling to offend anyone, Athos is almost surprised that it is a careless sentence that will be his undoing. But clearly, that is exactly what his words will be, and Athos sees a strange sort of justice in that.

He needs to tell d'Artagnan he didn't mean it. Needs to assure the young man that his guilt is unfounded.

But first, he has to find the boy alive, or everything will be for naught.

* * *

Half a day's ride from the edge of the forest, the Eastern road narrows. The forest grows denser and the rolling hills that they've travelled the past few days grow steep. It is here that the path's narrowest point can be found. This point is what locals call _les machoîres du bois_ , in other words the jaws of the forest. The name is apt. Riders are forced to pass through it one at a time, while tall hills topped by even taller trees tower over the path, casting macabre shadows. Some of the trees have cracked half way up and fallen to bridge over a higher part of the passage.

Passing through, d'Artagnan feels like he's going to get swallowed whole by the forest, crushed, perhaps by the wood's jaws. He can sense that the same claustrophobic fear also hangs over his fellow travellers. Not merely out of a sense of dread, but more rationally, because this passage would prove an ideal place for an ambush.

Once past the jaws, the path broadens again, allowing them to ride side by side. The musketeers are so relieved that they made it through that they do not see the shadow that steps away from a large tree at the top of the hill they just passed.

The shadow leaves with a message.

* * *

Bernard Chassoi knows the woods intimately, having grown up in the area. He is well aware of the effect of _les machoîres du bois_ , knows the dread you feel passing through it, and the vigilance, fuelled by fear that remains in your body for hours after passing the place.

When he saw the musketeers enter the forest, he knew that the kings men were doomed. He knew they would split up, and he knew exactly how long it would take the musketeers to get precisely where he wanted them. He was not disappointed by his abilities.

The other half of the group has probably already been ambushed by the rest of his men. They were traveling the path that seemed more dangerous. But the most dangerous part of this wide and safe looking road is yet to come for the remaining musketeers.

Here, the path turns up over a hill. Here, there is a multitude of caves, some of which are unknown even to him. Here, the brush is thick and the trees are close together.

Here, he will finally get his hands on the musketeers, and with a bit of luck, on the letter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers are reunited... sort of.

Athos rides with his heart somewhere on the ground. It's probably leaving a trail of deep gouges in the soft forest soil, that's how heavy it is. Every murmur and complaint from their captive makes him want to drive his rapier through something. Every concerned look from Porthos, every thoughtful stare from Aramis only drives into his sinking heart. _If they knew…_

"We're near the place." The captive says and it grates on Athos' every nerve, "Let me go now!"

Athos is opening his mouth, ready to dress the man down, but Aramis beats him to it. "We will release you when we see our brothers again."

It almost surprises the comte, but then the realises that the Spaniard's worst fears have already been dismissed. Though he probably still worries for his love and his son, there is room now for him to worry about their brother. Aramis is back. That's good.

Porthos sits on his horse with the tension of a man who really wants to kill something. Athos sincerely hopes the man will not need to do so. Petit, still riding beside his friend, is looking equally tense. He's always been close to DuPont, and the fear for his life hangs in the air as heavily as the fear for d'Artagnan's. And Moreau's. And Vasser's.

But it's not _them_ that Athos owes an apology.

"We're almost there…" the captive squeaks again, and Athos wants to punch him for speaking. "It's just around this corner."

Athos hopes the man is wrong. They have yet to catch up with their colleagues, and if they've already passed this place…

The comte grips his rapier, ready for the ambush he hopes will greet _them_ and not his friends, around the corner. What he finds is not an ambush.

It's a field of death.

* * *

There's a bend in the road up ahead. The path seems to be twisting upwards, over a hill and into a thickly wooded area. Up here some leaves still cling stubbornly to barren branches, casting a fiery hue over the area. It looks warm and welcoming, and the musketeers have finally managed to shake off the fearful feeling that the _jaws of the woods_ had left them with.

D'Artagnan's riding up front with DuPont, Moreau and Vasser following them. Their laughter echoes through the forest. The mirth is broken by the crack of a musket firing.

DuPont's horse goes down like a brick, taking its rider with it. There's that's sickening sound that only a breaking bone can make as DuPont lets out a scream of agony.

Suddenly the red glow of the leaves no longer carries the warm feeling of home, instead it shows the fires of hell.

New bullets are shot and d'Artagnan drops down from his horse. He knows he should leave, make a quick getaway so he can safely deliver the letter. But he cannot in good conscience leave DuPont trapped and helpless on the ground. Also, he tries to convince himself, between the trees up ahead he can spot at least four more men, he'll be shot down right away if he goes on.

"I'm going to get DuPont somewhere safer!" d'Artagnan yells to Moreau and Vasser. They nod.

"We'll cover." Moreau replies.

D'Artagnan urges his mare to move down the road. If their assailants have any sense at all they'll refrain from wasting bullets on a rider-less horse. She'll be safe. In the meantime, d'Artagnan's ducking from bullets and trying to pull DuPont from under his horse. It's no small feat. The man might be light, his horse certainly isn't. It doesn't help that every tug on d'Artagnan's part sends agony coursing through the other man's leg. In the end he has to lift the horse off of DuPont and pull his leg away harshly.

Soon d'Artagnan's back in the fray, parrying blows and dancing around men who want to see him dead. It's going quite well, up until the moment that three men decide to fight him at once. They're skilled, and for all d'Artagnan's talent, three is a bit too much. Brought back to defence, d'Artagnan is pushed off the road and through the trees. It's an advantage for him. The thick trunks shield him from harsh blows and he finds leverage in large roots.

He's looking for one of these roots when he steps back into open air. The fall is short, and he comes down with a jarring crash. The soft roots above him seem to converge and conceal the cavern's existence. Overhead three voices call out, confused, searching.

D'Artagnan holds his breath until he thinks he hears the voices retreating.

When he's sure that there is no one out their anymore, he stands. In doing so he pushes aside the roots that hid him. They're young and almost elastic in their springiness. The cave itself is maybe a foot deep, easy to hide in, and easy to get out of.

Vaguely, the Gascon wonders if there are more caves like this. The more pressing thought is that he has to get back.

* * *

D'Artagnan returns to a harsh battle. Moreau and Vasser are fighting back to back, surrounded by opponents. D'Artagnan circles around, attacks the assailants in their backs and fights his way through the throng. He can see the crowd thinning near the middle, where his fellow musketeers are holding their own.

"RETREAT!" d'Artagnan yells, beckoning the two men.

They do. Falling back fighting, and moving over to where DuPont is laid up in a cave-like structure near the edge of the road, it seems like things are finally starting to look up. With DuPont leaning on d'Artagnan for support and Moreau and Vasser shielding them, they make their way off the road again.

Just when something like a path has appeared, someone fires their musket.

That someone is not a musketeer.

Moreau grunts and grips his shoulder like it's on fire. Even from a distance, d'Artagnan can see blood starting to flow down the man's arm. DuPont moves away from him and leans on a tree, motioning for the Gascon to help the injured man. He's there in seconds, while Vasser holds off a couple of assailants.

"Get them out of here." Vasser growls.

"What?" d'Artagnan asks sharply, "And leave you here?"

It's not his habit to leave men to fight when he can do something to help.

"Yes. We've thinned them out." D'Artagnan opens his mouth to refute, but then Vasser turns towards him, eyes pleading. "I need him safe."

Looking down, the Gascon knows that Vasser is right. Moreau is already looking pale, slumped forward and losing blood fast. So fast indeed, that he's not even up to mingling in their conversation.

"Fine." D'Artagnan says, pulling Moreau up. Many of their opponents have retreated - to lick their wounds or prepare another attack, d'Artagnan doesn't know. What he _does_ know is that he has to somehow get two injured men to safety. "But I'm coming back for you. I promise."

At first he hopes that despite his blood-loss, Moreau will be able to walk. When the man slumps down, barely conscious against the Gascon's shoulder he knows he's wrong. He looks over at his two hurt comrades, calculating. One man has a useless leg, the other has a useless… everything.

Before d'Artagnan can decide on a course of action, however, DuPont moves away from the tree with a large branch under his arm that offers enough support to stand. The man stumbles along, tripping over roots, pain written all over his face. D'Artagnan really wishes that he didn't have to do this to the man but it allows for d'Artagnan to carry away Moreau so the Gascon holds his tongue. Instead he drags his bleeding colleague along.

It takes a few minutes for d'Artagnan to realise that he's heading for the cave he fell into some time earlier. A few seconds later the Gascon realises the cave is the perfect place for the two men to hide. Apparently his subconscious is a better planner than he is. Huh.

A cry sounds from the direction of the road.

Moreau moans, makes to turn around. d'Artagnan stops him and gently lays him on the ground. He needs to get back to Vasser. Right now. Reluctantly, the young musketeer turns to DuPont. Somehow the man will have to drag their unconscious friend to their hiding place. With a broken leg.

Well, d'Artagnan's heard stronger stories about DuPont. According to musketeer legend, the man took down 15 men with a dagger in his thigh. Not once, but _twice._ d'Artagnan never believed the stories. Now, the he hopes the tales are true.

"I fell into a cave just now." d'Artagnan says, breathing heavily. "It's just down there. You can step in and get out easily without being seen. You think you can manage this?"

DuPont has the pallor of the dead, but he nods, tugging at Moreau's shoulders and trying not to put any weight on his broken leg.

"Just get back to Vasser. Moreau will never forgive himself if something happens to the lad." He replies.

Just when he's about to turn, d'Artagnan hesitates. He pulls the letter from his chest, and hands it to DuPont. It's crinkled, and his hands have stained it with blood, but it is still the most important part of their mission.

"Keep this safe for me?" d'Artagnan asks.

DuPont doesn't answer, he simply takes the letter and looks the younger musketeer in the eyes. To d'Artagnan the look is so reminiscent of Athos that he has to swallow for a moment. He might never see that look on his mentor's face again.

Before he can do anything stupid or undignified like crying, d'Artagnan turns away and runs off to help Vasser.

* * *

D'Artagnan runs back to the road to the cacophony of his fast-beating heart. His rapier is clenched in his one hand, the other keeps his balance as he practically flies over bushes and roots. Even before he stumbles onto the road, d'Artagnan knows he's too late.

It's more than just a feeling in his gut. It's the absence of fighting. It's the muffled sound of a flesh on flesh. It's the leer of the sun as it sets over a group of men without pauldrons. Without honour.

And in the middle one man _with_ a pauldron.

One look at Vasser, semi-conscious eyes staring at him with a glazed plea, and all the excitement that has until thus far kept d'Artagnan going drains away. With it he feels small aches and pains returning, a slice down his side. Broken blisters where he held his sword. A bruise on his back where he feel earlier. The muscle that seems to be cramping all the way from his hip to his toe.

d'Artagnan's left stunned. A cold dread pools in his stomach, extinguishing the fiery storm that usually houses there. How did they get here? How did they get from riding peacefully to where they are now?

Two men down, one man on the verge of death. And d'Artagnan. The last one standing. Why was he spared?

In the games d'Artagnan used to play being the last one standing was always a good thing. It meant that he'd won. Since then he's learned that being the last is rarely good.

The last d'Artagnan. The last owner of the family farm in Lupiac. The last believer in the love that Constance and him share. The last believer of his own talents.

The last musketeer standing.

Always the last. It never feels like winning.

And now d'Artagnan is here, drowning in self-pity while an honourable man stands cringing away from the knife at his back. Enough is enough.

"Let him go." The words come out with a calm that even d'Artagnan doesn't expect.

"If you drop your weapons and surrender," a man in the middle calls, "We may consider it."

The man is short and stocky. D'Artagnan supposes his face would be handsome if it were not frozen in a permanent sneer. The Gascon immediately pegs him as the leader.

"What guarantee do I have that you won't murder him the moment I drop my rapier?" d'Artagnan asks. Though Aramis jokes may make it seem so, d'Artagnan is not in fact stupid. And this man screams _traitor_ even more than he screams _scum_.

"You don't," the man smirks.

D'Artagnan does not answer. That strange calm is still blanketing him, soothing the burning desire to fight and maim. He simply looks the man in the eyes with a haughty expression. For a moment the man seems to consider him, eyes gliding over him, sticking on his rapier and the slice in his side.

"Perhaps we can be cordial," The words come out with a sickly sweetness. "Your friend here has yet to give us any useful information concerning the letter you were carrying. Now, if you give us the letter, or tell us its location, we will set your friend free."

D'Artagnan knows there is only one answer to that request. "What letter?"

Immediately the man's eyes darken, his sneer turns into a deadly grimace as he makes eye contact with one of his men.

"Very well." The leader speaks. Then he slides the knife he was holding into Vasser's back with a sickening smile. "If you want to play it that way."

Vasser falls like a puppet who's strings have been cut.

D'Artagnan sees red.

* * *

By the time his attackers have him subdued, d'Artagnan has killed three men. Four more men have to keep him from flying at their leader. Their grips are tight and their hands steady as they push him to the ground. He's pretty sure his hand is broken from when one of the men tugged his rapier from him. That, and probably one or two ribs.

D'Artagnan is pulled up by his hair, his face pushed within inches of the leader's. He spits a glob of saliva in the man's face. The man looks unfazed.

"Where are your friends?" the stocky man asks. This time his voice is hard.

d'Artagnan sends a fearful look towards Vasser and swallows away tears. _Dead and dying_ , that's what his friends are.

The man smirks. "Dead, huh? Looks like you're going to have all the fun."

Somehow, d'Artagnan doubts he's going to find anything the man does fun. He fights like a demon to get loose, but he's outnumbered and injured. A harsh blow to his head leaves him dizzy, and before he knows it he's being dragged away, arms behind his back.

There's a guilty feeling of relief in d'Artagnan's stomach that it's not him painting the mud red, but also a sickening feeling of terror at his friend's passing. No one should have to go that way. Or any way. Death never gets any less ugly.

Maybe Athos was right after all.

_There is no diginity in death._

* * *

When they arrive at the scene, Athos feels bile rising in his throat. Not because he's never seen corpses strewn around a battle field. No, this bile rises out of fear. Fear of searching the corpses and finding d'Artagnan among them. The sheer prospect is so terrifying that it numbs his very being.

The path is littered with the dead, their blood mingling with the dark soil.

Porthos jumps to the ground immediately, cursing like a sailor, and sets out to find survivors. His moves are panicky as he searches for his brothers, but is main gauche is out held steady in his hand. There will be no more unpleasant surprises on his watch.

To Athos' right Aramis remains frozen for only a little longer than Porthos. He's the medic, he needs to heal wounds and help people. For a moment though, he can't move. The tapestry before him is just slightly too similar to the fields of Savoy so many years ago. He reminds himself firmly that this is different. There's no snow. And these dead men are _not_ his brothers. He simply refuses to believe that d'Artagnan is among the fallen.

It is with this litany in mind that Aramis grabs his medical supplies and slips from his horse.

Athos has yet to move.

It is only when Porthos cries out, "I've found Vasser!" that the spell is broken. If Vasser is among these men, then d'Artagnan must be too. Sliding from his horse in a daze, Athos makes his way over to Porthos. Petit, who Athos realises only now was also searching the bodies, beats everyone to Vasser.

It strikes Athos again that though the Inseparables may be the most tight-knit unit of musketeers, there are other units of friends that are close to each other. He forgets sometimes that his small group of friends is only one of many. The look of utter devastation on Petit's face only drives that home stronger.

Vasser lies beside his enemy in a pool of blood. His eyes are closed, his face is pale, and Athos has no hope for the young man's life. Still, Aramis desperately feels for a pulse in Vasser's neck. It takes a second or two for the Spaniards face to transform into a look of surprise.

"He's alive." The whisper is barely above the volume of a breath, but it is enough to get Petit moving. The large man leans over Vasser, shakes him, calls his name. Anything to get the man to wake.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Vasser's eyes flutter open. They stare for a moment, unseeing, at the treetops. Then they widen, a large gasp of air bursting from his lungs.

"I can't move." Vasser's voice is stoic, but his eyes are terrified. Petit shushes the younger man.

"Don't worry, Aramis will fix you up." Porthos breathes, still stuck in his moment of surprise.

After stopping the man's blood from seeping away, Aramis finds a greenish paste at the edge of the wound. He recognises it as _Carolina Jasmine_ a poisonous herb that can cause paralysis. This paste is so diluted that it cannot kill, but it can immobilise a man for days. It's a stupid mistake to make, Aramis reflects, to dilute the herb so much that it loses its toxic potency. Still, it's a mistake that saved Vasser's life, so he's not going to complain.

It's only after they've established that, and taken care of the man's wound that Porthos asks the important question. "What happened?"

Vasser tells the whole story. Athos heart just drops further and further. At Vasser's final words, spoken in a voice that promises death to their attackers, Athos heart just drops away.

"They took d'Artagnan."

Whoops. There goes Athos' heart.

* * *

Aramis and Petit follow the path of blood, dark stains and lighter drops leading their way. Then the blood suddenly stops. Petit looks around, searches for his friends. There are no footsteps leading from this place, no broken twigs but the ones he's already passed. In a moment of insanity he allows himself to look up. Maybe DuPont and Moreau are not injured as badly as Vasser thinks they are, maybe they've managed to climb up and hide in a tree. Maybe their attackers have taken them away…

"DUPONT!" Petit yells desperately, "MOREAU!"

Suddenly DuPont's head pops out of the ground, a bloody hand batting away the roots that just concealed him.

"Petit…" There's so much relief in the man's breathy statement that Petit almost feels his own knees buckling with it.

"Moreau?" Petit asks, "Is he-?"

"He's alive. I've slowed the bleeding." DuPont whispers as he beckons Petit down. The large man steps into the small underground cavern, as DuPont tries his hardest not to stand on his broken leg. Aramis is standing above ground, grabbing hold of Moreau when Petit levers him out of the cave. It's only once Aramis has bandaged Moreau's shoulder and splinted DuPont's leg that DuPont asks the question that Petit does not want to answer.

"How are Vasser and d'Artagnan?"

Petit just shakes his head.

* * *

"They left the road, and went east." Vasser mumbles, still unable to move anything but his face.

The captive, not entirely the smartest of men, opens his mouth as soon as it's said, "That's where Chassroi's chateau is!"

Seconds after the triumphant explanation, his face falls, realising too late that he is not going to be let free until he's brought the musketeers to the chateau. Aramis and Porthos exchange a smirk.

It is decided that the three Inseparables will be led to the chateau by their prisoner. Petit will continue the journey with the three injured men. At first, this seems rather dangerous, but when Athos dryly suggests that maybe it would be safer if someone were to accompany Petit the replies are so vehement that the matter is dropped.

Porthos, in particular is angry at Athos' suggestion. He feels it is directed at him.

"If you think for one second that I am not following d'Artagnan, then you do not know me at all." He spits.

That closes the discussion, and soon everyone is astride their horse. Before they leave, a pale DuPont looks Athos in the eyes. DuPont is sitting straight, a boneless Vasser in his arms, leg splinted to the best of Aramis' abilities.

"D'Artagnan is one of the bravest men I have ever met. Handing me the letter, despite the honour he felt at receiving it… That is a bravery that many a musketeer still needs to learn." DuPont whispers. There's a hint of accusation in his voice when the adds, "Whatever quarrel you have with him, you must know that."

It's not something any of the musketeers need to hear. After all, they've known for a while. Since before the Gascon even truly was a musketeer.

* * *

It is a testimony of the fear and anger that clouds the musketeers' minds that they do not question why Vasser is alive.

They're grateful for it of course, but had they been in top shape, they might have wondered if maybe Vasser had been left alive purposefully. It might then have occurred to them that Vasser was meant to see and tell them the direction d'Artagnan was dragged away to. It may have struck them that they were walking right into a trap.

After all, one good look at the dead men around them and they would see a familiar face, one that attacked them on the other road. One of the men who got away.

But blinded as they are by their emotions they do not see any of this. Instead they mount their horses, and go in the direction that Vasser points them. Petit follows the road, accompanied by three injured musketeers.

Three musketeers have been injured and their youngest friend has been kidnapped.

One way or another, someone is going to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so some of this might be slightly unrealistic, but I just couldn't bring myself to kill off Vasser… Anyway, let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains torture and some gore.

When d'Artagnan opens his eyes, he fears for a moment that he has gone blind. That's before he realises that the blackness that surrounds him is made up of a spectrum of grey. The relief at that realisation is only shadowed by the memories of before this darkness.

Images of steel, brothers, and the sneering face of a creature hardly worthy of the name human. Images of a letter, of blood, and discourse between him and his closest friends.

The image of Vasser, bleeding in the sand.

He remembers now how he was dragged away from Vasser's body, he remembers a hit to the head, and fingers pressing into the gash on his side. Pressing, pushing until the world turned dark with a flash of white-hot pain.

And now he's here.

Here; a dank cell, where chains snake their way up his arms and any colour is leeched from the air. The promise of 'fun' from the stocky leader he met earlier hangs over his head. The man wants to know where the letter is. Though it has never been d'Artagnan's plan to tell the man anything of the letter, he now makes it a vow.

Vasser perished to keep it safe. d'Artagnan is not going to let that sacrifice be in vain.

A light flickers beyond the bars of the cell, yellow and bright, it brings some colour into the Gascon's world. When a flame rounds the corner, it is followed by a shadowed figure. Even without his face visible, d'Artagnan can almost feel the sneer emanating from the man. And he knows.

Whatever is going to come next, it's going to hurt.

* * *

The musketeers have been riding for a little over a day. A short stop at night to catch some sleep and eat something is the only break that they've allowed themselves to have. The trail they were following has long since gone dead, the absence of it just serves to drive home that they've lost track of d'Artagnan. What's even worse, it means that they are completely dependent on their captive's memory of how to get to the chateau.

Porthos can't help but think that at the rate they're going they should have passed the group of kidnappers by now. Actually, Porthos especially can't help but think that they should never have left the trail in favour of their captive's sense of direction at all. Something about the man… What was his name again? Right, d'Aubier. Something about d'Aubier just does not sit well with Porthos.

Growing up in the Court, Porthos has met all kinds of conmen and women. He knows the type. They're always charismatic as they charm themselves into people's inner circle with compliments and favours. Slippery as an eel, with the silver tongue of a snake they worm themselves in everywhere. And just when you've learned to trust them, they disappear, taking with them everything you care about. This man, this d'Aubier is giving off the same vibes. He is just a bit _too_ ready to help.

D'Aubier seems to be a permanently anxious man. His eyes scan the forest around them every few seconds, every cracking twig startles him and the grip on his reins is so tight that Porthos wonders if the man will ever be able untangle them from his hands again. The directions he gives are shaky, his voice quivering and his eyes roaming while he guides them.

To say Porthos doesn't trust the man would be an understatement.

But he's their only hope.

* * *

As the third day of their journey progresses, Aramis starts to feel anxious. Porthos is always very influential when it comes to the mood of a group. When he's unconcerned and light-hearted, people tend to feel comfortable, no matter how dire the situation. On the other hand, when he's angry he can almost make that tension thrum through an entire crowd. Since the large man has been on edge all day, Aramis' nerves are also starting to chafe.

It's when the evening starts rolling in that Porthos cracks. He stops his horse and reaches over to pull at d'Aubier's reins as well. The group comes to a stop, Aramis worried, Porthos furious, and Athos impatient, but ready to listen to what his friend has to say.

"What are you playing at?" Porthos' voice comes out in a growl.

"What do you mean?" d'Aubier asks, a quiver in his voice.

"What I mean is that we've been ridin' for two days. Without seeing anyone, or coming across any tracks that could lead us on." D'Aubier opens his mouth to refute, but before he can get any words out, Porthos is in his face again. "And call me mad, but I'm pretty sure we've passed this tree already."

The old oak that Porthos is pointing at does look eerily familiar. Its large branches are so long and thick that they reach back down to the ground, seemingly forming new trunks. Almost entirely covered in moss, it jumps out and grabs the attention.

Aramis can see now that they've passed this place before.

Athos, stoic and silent, loses his temper for the first time since they've heard of d'Artagnan's capture. Eyes wintery, with a voice so frozen that ice seems to shatter from his very teeth, the comte says, "You have been leading us in circles. You have betrayed our trust. We explicitly told you what the consequences of that would be. If you can provide a suitable explanation for your actions, we may spare you. If you cannot, I will take pleasure in personally impaling you on my rapier."

Sometimes Aramis forgets how absolutely terrifying Athos can be. Luckily, the comte is more than willing to remind his friends, and his enemies, just how dangerous he really is. The pallor of d'Aubier's skin goes from a blotchy grey to a deathly white in a span of two seconds.

"I don't really know the way very well…" The man squeaks.

Porthos, who still holds the reins of their captive's horse takes that as his cue to snarl inches from the man's face, "You must be really stupid if you think we're ever going to believe that."

At those words d'Aubier's face twists into a smile that makes Aramis skin crawl. With just that smile, the man's entire character seems to change. Gone is the nervous and slightly stupid captive, now all that's left is a devious looking piece of scum.

"Still not as stupid as you three…" d'Aubier shakes his head, still smiling and continues, "I've been leading you in circles for two days, and you never even realised it."

"We do now." Aramis speaks for the first time, disgust still curling in his stomach, "And I think you've just earned yourself a round with Athos' rapier."

"Maybe. But it's already too late. You'll never see your little friend again."

Porthos' hands are around the man's neck before he can say anything else, only the fact that they're all on horseback keeping him from murder. A look from Aramis is the only thing that prevents him from moving in closer and finishing the deed.

A howl echoes through the quickly darkening woods. Loud voices sound through the trees as beating hooves come closer. Three heads snap up. The fourth, their captive's, remains level, a content smile marring his features.

"You set us up!" Porthos' snarl has gone down to a whisper, he doesn't want to alert their pursuers of where they are.

"How did they know to come here?" Athos asks, perplexed, but practical as ever.

"It's procedure. Chassroi's men always make their rounds. And when they find sash tied to a tree," d'Aubier points down to where he used to carry a purple sash. Athos curses internally for not noticing. Both Aramis and Porthos do so _externally._ "They know that there's something worth hunting."

D'Aubier barely has time to finish his shit-eating grin before Porthos punches him off his horse. Aramis quickly blocks his way, moving in close. Soon all three men are towering over him, the rage on their faces clear even in the dusky light.

"We could just leave you here," Aramis starts, his voice sweet as ever, "Leave you to be torn down by those hounds. Leave you to explain why we got away."

"Or we could just kill you," Porthos says, with all the lightness of a man discussing the weather.

Athos seems to deliberate, his rapier shining softly through the dark, as if ominously catching all the light before it falls. It's with a voice so soft it's almost soothing, that Athos says, "The latter does seem the better option. After all, I did make a promise."

There's a moment of fear on the captive's face at those words, all the devil-may-care attitude gone. Then Athos brings down his rapier so quickly it looks almost careless.

The musketeers leave behind a heap of dead d'Aubier and a set of hoof prints they hope their pursuers will not be able to make out at night.

* * *

D'Artagnan has lost track of time. There's no way of feeling its passage here in this cell. The only light he gets to see is that of a torch, and he's never really in for anything pleasant when the torch comes by. After all, that light is always accompanied by a dark and horrid shadow that relishes in his pain. Always.

By now, d'Artagnan has learnt the man's name. Chassroi. The importance of that fact is not lost on the Gascon. If the man wants him to know his name, then this whole thing has turned into something personal. Which is bad.

The thinks.

Thinking is another thing that's becoming increasingly difficult. The pounding of his head seems to drown out any thoughts, and the sluggish bleeding of the slice in his side seems to sap him of brainpower somehow. Aramis would know what to do, if you know, the man wanted to see d'Artagnan again.

It's a terrifying thought that maybe he has gone too far, and that maybe no one is coming for him. Deep down, though, he knows they will. No matter their quarrel. No matter their anger. No matter what they blame him for ( _since you got your father killed_ , it echoes in his head). They will come for him. Even if it's just out of a sense of duty.

Chassroi knows this, too. He seems to be well acquainted with the business of musketeers, and that is rather concerning in itself. Not the most concerning, though. The most concerning thing is keeping his mouth shut.

At first when Chassroi comes in, d'Artagnan speaks back. For every taunt and jeer from his captor, the Gascon has an answer. For every kick in the guts, every backhand, every punch, he has a grin and a curse.

It always starts the same way.

"Where's the letter?" Chassroi will begin.

"What letter?" d'Artagnan's not quite sure how often he's repeated those words by now, but he knows they will not change until Chassroi's question does.

"Why are you still trying to keep this a secret? Most of your friends are dead. Those who aren't will soon join us in these cellars. You'll spare everyone a lot of pain if you just tell me where you hid it." The man's voice is lilting, and the look on his face would probably look friendly to anyone who has never seen his sneer before.

D'Artagnan simply reminds himself that Aramis, Porthos and Athos are _not_ dead. That's what he can find out from these words. His friends are alive. And they won't be stupid enough to come after him (he knows they _will_ come after him, and deep down he really hopes they do, but they can't, they _can't_ come down here for him and then hurt and die…).

"I don't know what you're talking about." D'Artagnan keeps his turmoil inside. Athos would be proud.

"You musketeers... You're the King's little bitches. Just working on the very whim of a boy who doesn't even know how to run a country. And you'd still die for him." Chassroi punctuates his statement with a blow to d'Artagnan's ribs.

"Better the bitch of a King than the plaything of an earl." It comes out as a breathless grunt, but there's a sweet smile on d'Artagnan's face when he speaks.

Then Chassroi will try flattery, "You seem like a smart man. Why do you support a King you knows nothing of France?"

"He might not know everything, but he certainly knows more than a Swedish earl." D'Artagnan always replies.

That is the gist of just about any conversation d'Artagnan can recall since he came in. At first, that is. As soon as Chassroi realises that he will get nowhere with sweet talk or punches he has gotten to the part that he calls 'really fun'.

D'Artagnan disagrees.

Maybe it's because d'Artagnan does not enjoy hurting people. Maybe it's because he does not generally agree with torture as a means to get people to talk. The Inseparables have shown him the threat itself is usually enough.

Or maybe... Maybe it's because d'Artagnan's the one whose being strung for hours on end while sharp whips pound his flesh and sing-song voices fills his ears.

After the first few stings on his back, d'Artagnan knows he can't keep up his cheeky commentary on the situation. Not with his lungs freezing every time a burning strike reaches him. He can't trust himself enough not to give anything away if he opens his mouth. So he tries not to say another word until he's either out of here or dead.

He's really hoping for the first option.

His silence only serves to aggravate Chassroi. The strikes become crueller and the words that d'Artagnan has long since stopped listening to, grow harsher. Good. If angering this man is the last thing he does in his life, then it's a life lived well.

They bring him back to his cell. He never could have imagined a place he despised more than this cell. But there is one.

And it feels like hell.

* * *

The wind whips through their hair as they fly through the forest. It's quickly getting too dark to see, and it's a blessing that the trees are leafless, or the shine of the moon would be lost on them too. Behind them, nearly drowned out by the pounding of hooves under them, is the barking of hounds. Seemingly closer and closer it comes. Louder and louder and...

They're breathless as branches scratch their clothes and the cold stings at their faces. The horses are equally out of breath, their flanks rising and to the beat of the musketeers' hearts.

Every once in a while they look at each other, silently communicating the fear for their youngest, the worry for their capture, and the sheer, raging determination to find and kill those who dared lay hands on one of them.

But first, they have to ensure they don't get caught.

It's easier said than done. They've been riding their horses for days, giving them precious little rest, and soon one of the creatures is going to give out. The pursuers have fresher horses and knowledge of the area.

As one mind the three men urge their horses to go just that little bit faster. It's the understanding of three soldiers who have seen too much together that allows them to make these kinds of decisions without even conferring with each other. With their additional speed they quickly ride out of the reach of those chasing them.

When Porthos' horse practically trips over itself out of fatigue they stop for a moment, listening through the dark. They know the dogs' howls will soon catch up with them again.

It's Athos who takes the lead, knowing they can't go on like this for much longer.

"We'll have to split up." the comte pants.

"Yeah, cause that went so well last time…" Porthos retorts.

"That's a good point." Aramis meddles.

"We don't really have a choice, gentlemen. If we don't, they'll get us all. If we do then at least one of us can escape, and follow up later to get the rest out."

Of course both Porthos and Aramis already know it's the best option. That doesn't mean they have to like it though. The two friends eye each other for a moment, then they nod simultaneously.

"Very well," Athos says at their agreement, "Time to part ways then."

"Don't die!" Porthos answers in a voice that is way too cheerful for a man heading to his death.

"If we do, I have no doubt we will see you in hell." Athos states with the arch of a brow.

"Not me!" Aramis tells his friends, sounding just as cheery as Porthos, "I pray. If that doesn't get me a pass to heaven, I don't know what will."

It's with the fear in their hearts and a smile on their faces that the musketeers part ways.

* * *

Back in the dark dungeon d'Artagnan is straining his eyes. Trying to see something proves to be a good distraction from the fiery pain on his back. He's sat against the wall, leaning against his right arm. The cold stone was soothing at first to the pain, now it only serves to ignite it.

He can't see anything. He wants to sleep and forget, but his wounds won't allow it. So instead d'Artagnan thinks of better times. Times that don't include him hurt and tortured and friendless in a dungeon he does not want to be in.

He thinks of winding roads in Paris. He thinks of the sun setting over the walls of the city. He thinks of the King's large gardens that he can sometimes imagine are his own. He thinks of the wind as it grips Constance's hair and wafts it around her shoulders. He thinks of Athos' raised eyebrow, of Aramis' charming smile and Porthos' boisterous laugh.

Until that, too, gets painful. After all, it's one of the things he thinks he might have lost.

So he sets his thoughts further in the past. He thinks of Gascony with its sunny fields and its baking heat. He thinks of his farm, stood between copses of trees. Of soft winters and cool streams. Of his father's stern look that was so often broken by a smile. He thinks of Buttercup, his yellow horse. He hopes she got away.

Despite his best intentions, when he closes his eyes he dreams not of Gascony, but of Paris.

* * *

Porthos is a true Parisian. It may not literally run in his blood, but he's spent most of his life there and his heart throbs to the city's rhythm. He's not one of those people who does not want to venture out of what he knows. On the contrary, he's often jumped off of the precipice and into the unknown with the faith of madman. It's how he survived on the streets. It's how he became a musketeer. And, most important, it's how he met his friends.

Now, he's seen so many places in France that he's lost count. He's come to love the forests and the long stretching fields that grow on French soil. But in times like these, when he's being chased through an unknown wood, he longs for the narrow streets of Paris.

Not because being hunted down is so much more pleasant in Paris than it is here, but because at home he has the upper hand. In Paris Porthos knows every street, every alley, every dark corner and bump in the road. In Paris Porthos can disappear by turning just three corners. He can hide in a crowd of drunks, or delve into the cellar he knows is always open on the Rue des Lombards.

Here there's nothing but trees, looming up like ghosts in the dark. Their heavy roots reach for his legs tripping him and holding him up. It's one of these roots, a sneaky little thing hidden by darkness and moss that becomes his downfall.

His horse gave out not long ago, stopping in its tracks and nearly thundering to the ground in its exhaustion. It would no longer move. Unable to force his horse to move – and unwilling too if he was honest, the horse was a formidable animal – but equally unwilling to get caught, he ran.

Now, Porthos is still running, long legs pumping over the forest ground when his foot gets caught up in a root. He careens forward in a comically slow arch. Behind him there's the heavy breathing of dogs. With more relief than he thinks physically possible he feels his ankle is unhurt. With a lot less relief he realises he can't get his boot free from the root it's stuck in.

Pulling, pulling, all the while hearing panting dogs and thundering hoofs come closer. Finally he manages to tug his foot out of his boot. He's running again, sharp objects on the forest ground cutting into his left foot. Thorns. Roots. Fallen branches.

Then there's a hound in front of him. The thing is brown, sleek fur over an athletic body. A true hunting dog. And Porthos is the prey.

The dog does not attack, but the large musketeer stills. He doesn't want to take his chances against that thing. Behind him two horses slow to a halt, he can hear them.

A voice calls out, "Surrender to us, and no harm will come to you."

"Yeah right, like I'm stupid enough to believe that." It comes out with a rough scoff, "Nah, you wanna take me down… You'll have to fight me for it."

"We could do that. Or we could just set the dog on you." The second voice is quieter, colder. It's also closer, a silhouette blocking out the moonlight to his right.

"That hardly seems fair." Porthos argues and before he can continue, the leg, that presumably belongs to the second voice, kicks out.

The world goes darker than it was before.

* * *

d'Artagnan is woken roughly by two men pulling him up. His chains are taken off and he struggles to get free. Not because he thinks he'll actually manage it, but because he owes it to himself to try. A punch to his gut drives he air from his lungs. That allows for the Gascon to be dragged easily to another cell nearby.

It's a cell d'Artagnan has come to hate in the short time he's been here.

Soon he's been unceremoniously hung from two chains on the ceiling. His feet can just reach the ground, so he locks his knees and looks Chassroi straight in the eyes. The man will not have the satisfaction of his fear. There's a smirk on the other man's face. It promises nothing but pain.

D'Artagnan steels himself when Chassroi signals one of his men to get started on d'Artagnan. It's the first time that the leader does not inflict the torture on him personally. Something has changed. D'Artagnan just can't tell what.

It doesn't matter, really. It doesn't change the question, or the answer.

When the man behind d'Artagnan picks something from the wall d'Artagnan knows what is waiting for him. The leather squeak of a whip as it slides from a wall is something that the Gascon regrets he's come acquainted with.

The blow comes hard, reopening a welt from the day before. But d'Artagnan does not yell. Does not answer. Does not even open his mouth. His eyes tear up, but he does not cry. Instead he raises his head and looks at Chassroi.

Then d'Artagnan smiles.

Something of a shadow comes over the other man's face. Chassroi steps forward, signing for the man behind the Gascon to stall the next swing. Moving to stand behind d'Artagnan, he slowly lets his hand run down the landscape of welts on the Gascon's back.

Leaning in closer, the man whispers softly in d'Artagnan's ear, "You may not realise it yet, but the game has changed. What hasn't changed is you. Here. Alone. _At my mercy._ "

For a second d'Artagnan feels almost triumphant that he has managed to goad out that something has indeed changed. The last of Chassroi's words billow past his face.

"Don't forget that."

Then the man plunges a finger into one of d'Artagnan's wounds. Flinching in pain, Gascon highly doubts he will ever forget any of this.

He thinks he must imagine it, but as Chassroi pushes his filthy finger deeper into the welt, he hears a dog bark.

* * *

Dogs. Athos has never really liked them. He had dogs at home when he was younger, enormous creatures that towered above him. Their gnashing teeth and putrid breath had always scared him a little when he was young. He remembers seeing one of those beasts tear down a fox like the thing was made of wax. It was terrifying. Now, Athos is over the fear. That doesn't mean he has to like the creatures.

There's a crack of a musket in the air. Athos' horse, already tired and on edge, bucks out of sheer panic. This surprises Athos to some extent. Musketeer horses are trained to resist the fear of battle and listen to their riders. He must really have driven his steed too far to get this kind of reaction from a mere musket shot.

However, the reason barely matters. What does matter is that Athos is now standing still. Two riders approach him, swords gleaming in the measly light of the moon. He turns his horse, grabs his own rapier, swishing it once to get its feel.

Athos takes a moment to regret that he doesn't often get to do swordfights on horseback. After all he's even better from the back of this trusty steed than he is on his own two feet. So with an outward look of grim determination, and an inward feel of exhilaration, he starts to fight.

The two men attack first, simultaneous strikes to his head. He parries them both. The three dance around, Athos' tired horse still nimble as ever. He doesn't have to win, he just needs enough space between himself and these two men to get away.

That's when the hounds come. They run around barking, snapping their teeth only inches from his horses' legs. Growling, jumping, snarling. One particularly large one makes a lunge at the horse's neck.

Athos' horse bucks again, sending Athos to the ground.

Immediately the dog stops barking, Athos thinks he can see it lying dead under the hooves of his horse. He doesn't get much time to look though, before he's being pushed back down by the paws of another hound.

The dog leans over him, drool falling onto his face. It's a well-trained animal, used only to find the prey, not to kill it. All bark and no bite. Poor thing just now died for nothing. Still, the creature is heavy and Athos finds he can't dislodge it.

He can hear a man dismount, but he has eyes only for the dog on top of him. Within seconds there's a blade at his throat while two hands shift to his belt and disarm him. Only when that is done does Athos hear the whistle that signals the dog to get off him.

The blade is still at his jugular.

"Gentlemen." Athos states politely as he stares up at his pursuer. "I will come with you willingly if you bring me to the Chateau that is owned by a man named Chassroi."

For a second Athos can see a confused frown on the face above him. _What's this man playing at?_ It seems to ask. That's an easy question to answer. He needs to get d'Artagnan to safety, and only by surrendering will he ensure that he is not too injured to get his friend out.

"Well, what a coincidence. That's exactly where we're taking you." The voice above him mumbles.

Athos is pulled up roughly, his hands tied behind his back and then he's draped ungracefully over the saddle of his own horse. It's in this humiliating manner that Athos is brought to the chateau.

But at least he's getting there.

* * *

There's that metallic tang of blood in the air. Rancid breaths puff onto him, as warm and wet as the sweat on his back and the tears on his face. From where he's standing (or being held up by the chains that hang him from the ceiling – he isn't quite sure which) he can see his tormenter circling him endlessly.

Still, he doesn't see the slash of the whip coming. He hears it, though. There's a _whoosh_ as it rips the air apart. And he feels it. Oh, boy does he feel it. There's a white hot fire as it rips his skin to shreds.

His body is screaming now, begging for attention. But however much he wants to, however hard he tries, he can't get the screaming to leave his body. When he opens his mouth to scream, to beg for the pain to stop all that comes out is a grunt, a large exhale of air. Nothing else. Vaguely he wonders at why. Gascon pride, perhaps? Ingrained so deep that even when he rebels against it, it still wins out? They'd call it stubbornness.

They. Aramis, Athos, Porthos. Les Inseperables. Musketeers. Friends.

Brothers.

He hopes that connection will be enough for them to come after him. He hopes that he did not offend them with his willingness to leave. He also hopes that he did. That his friends will never come, will never see him like this, and will never have to endure all this pain and fear.

There's another _whoosh_ , followed by a cackle of laughter. There's a question, but he has long stopped paying attention to those. Something warm and wet and painful slides over his back.

Maybe Athos was right after all. d'Artagnan may not have believed the man at the time, but he can feel it now.

Everything ends bloody, and there is no dignity in death.

As the whip comes down again his vision explodes in a cacophony of white as he falls into the abyss of unconsciousness.

* * *

Aramis is making good time, considering. His horse is tired, but holding its own. Sadly, the same can also be said the ones following him. They're gaining on him, and the barking of dogs can be heard throughout the forest. At first Aramis had marvelled at their speed, then he realised these dogs aren't impossibly fast, there are just very many of them. And that's how they're keeping up with his horse.

Aramis narrows his eyes, it's dark, but he isn't the best shot in the garrison for nothing. His eyes are sharp even at night. In front of him he can see the trees part. That's good. That means a stream, or road where he can potentially lose his pursuers. He's just about to launch over whatever is separating the trees, when he sees what it is. He pulls the reins of his horse so hard that the animal almost twists back to where they came from.

In front of him the ground drops away to nothing, simply disappearing after the last row of trees. Crumbling earth ending and falling into sky. Opposite him he can see more trees, but there's an impossible barrier in between. Behind him, his captors are closing in.

Bringing his horse in a bit closer, he looks down. All he sees is black. Too deep to hide in then. Then he looks across again, calculating. Is the opposite side too far away to jump? If it is, and Aramis tries to jump, he'll fall to his death. Still, he needs to do something to keep out of the grip of the dogs.

He'll just have to try.

Turning his horse back where he came from, Aramis ensures a long running path. Then, breathing deeply, he leans in close to his horse, whispering encouragements like d'Artagnan always does. That's why he's doing this, for that farm boy who turned out to be so much more. And if he falls to his death out of sheer stupidity for that boy, then it'll be a pretty damn good death.

Another deep breath, and he straightens. Digs his heels into the horse's flank, and feels the strong body under him start to move forward. His heart echoes the beats of his horses hooves. Behind him he hears voices calling.

Then he's flying.

Flying.

Crashing down on the opposite side, only just dodging a tree. But he's made it, and on this side there are no captors. Now he's free. The horse trips over a root and Aramis feels the creature crashing down before he sees it. Jumping off and quickly rolling away he manages to escape landing under his beloved steed.

He does crash into a tree though. And something in his shoulder pops as he hits first a branch and then the unforgiving ground. From his experience as a medic he can hear the dislocation happen. From his experience as a soldier he can _feel_ it happening. It hurts.

Looking up he can see that his mount is up again, and thankfully unscathed. Good. The only problem now is that his dominant arm is absolutely useless, which makes _him_ rather useless in mounting a horse. That's bad.

To make things worse Aramis can suddenly hear the cracking of twigs and the neighing of a horse. Within seconds a horsed man is towering over him.

"Nice beast you've got there." There's a glint of teeth in the dark, "Don't know many that can make a jump like that."

"I'm sure you don't." Aramis says amiably, "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to get on him again, and leave."

"Not a chance." The other man growls. That's exactly the answer Aramis expects, so he's already managed to pull his rapier from his belt with his left hand.

He's about to approach the man when he feels an arm wind around his neck. Stabbing wildly backwards he's satisfied when he hears a pained grunt. Then his shoulder is jostled and everything goes fuzzy.

Someone rips his weapon from his grasp while he's dazed. The same voice from before comes wafting over him, "I see you've met Guillaume. Best watch out, he has a firm grip."

Aramis is finding out just then how true that is. The arm winds tighter, cutting off his windpipe. He goes from dazed, to breathless, to unconscious in a matter of seconds.

* * *

_What letter. What letter. What letter._ Those two words have become a lifeline to d'Artagnan. They echo and echo in his head as he tries to ignore the pain.

_What letter._ He thinks as a knife is run almost soothingly through the flesh on his shoulder. _What letter?_ His questions internally when Chassroi spits in his face. _What letter?_ He wonders as he feels his knees buckle, his full weight hanging at his shoulders.

_What letter. What letter? What letter!_ The litany flows through his mind, a gentle stream of thought. Easy, palpable, and the only words he can ever let Chassroi hear.

He'll break, sooner or later. D'Artagnan knows he will. But when he does, the only thought in his mind will be _what letter?_ And the only words from his mouth will be _what letter?_

And that means he'll have won. Though honestly with his body burning and freezing like it is, he wonders if it will feel like winning.

_WHAT LETTER?!_ His mind screams as he sees, for the first time, Chassroi approaching him with a fiery red poker. _WHAT LETTER._ The panicked voice in his head asks flatly as he sees the poker smoking, white steam billowing like a ghost through the air.

As the red-hot poker nears his body, he can feel the heat emanating from it. When it touches his skin, scorching, burning, melting, his mouth gapes, soundless. But his mind screams. _WHAT LETTER!?_

He's not sure what he feels anymore now but there's a monster clawing its way out of his chest, and he _needs_ to let it out.

_What letter?_ He repeats to himself. Because he feels his vocal cords buzzing, his lungs seizing in an attempt for sound, and he knows _something_ is going to come out.

He just hopes it's the right thing.

* * *

They're in a dungeon. That much is clear at least. The large stone walls are wet and cold, the chains attached to their manacles dig deep into the stone. A torch at the dungeon door is the only source of light, flickering and casting shadows that only make the dismal place seem darker. Porthos' mind is not quite clear enough to realise what it means that they're here. Dried blood is crusted against his cheek, and he distantly notes that that has something to do with the continuous pounding in his head. He wants to close his eyes again and go back to sleep. Maybe then, he can pretend that he's not in a godforsaken dungeon. A nagging feeling that he's forgetting something keeps him from doing so.

Ah, he remembers now. There's something he needs to find. Three somethings, in fact. Searching, Porthos lets his eyes roam. There's a lump to his left, shaped like a man. A man wearing a hat.

Good. That's thing number one: Aramis.

To Porthos' right is another figure. That second lump, looking grumpy even in the dark and facing in another direction, is Athos. Thing number two has been accounted for.

So that leaves…

A cry so rough that it sounds like someone's lungs are trying to escape through their throat rents the air. Even distorted in the way that it is, Porthos knows that voice like no other.

"D'ARTAGNAN!" Athos is sitting up now, pulling at his chains as if that will get him closer to his protégé, the rasp that is his voice cracks halfway. Aramis, too, seems to have woken, furious eyes staring in the direction of the scream.

Porthos can scarcely imagine what it must take to rip a sound like that from their newest recruit, but he hopes he'll never have to hear it again. Still, part of him is glad of the scream. At least now he knows that the three most important people in his life are alive.

He daren't think the words 'for now'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'll just leave that there. Heh heh.
> 
> Also, just to be sure, I don't own Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron, but there was a cliff and a chase on horse-back. I couldn't resist.


	10. Chapter 10

The screaming stops after a while, but it's not a relief. At least when d'Artagnan is screaming it means he's alive and capable of making noise. Silence doesn't mean that whatever made him scream has stopped. In reality it usually means that someone is either gagged, unconscious or…. Well. That last option is simply unthinkable.

Through the screaming (five short bellows of pain, they've all been counting) they never once heard any words. Just meaningless outcries of agony. In their own cell, the musketeers have remained silent, listening in their own worlds of mental agony. Even Athos has held his tongue after his initial scream for d'Artagnan. They haven't even looked at each other.

"Well then," Aramis whispers, voice slightly hoarse from when he was throttled, "We'd best see how we get out of here."

Both Porthos and Athos look up at the sharpshooter. Where Athos' face is stoic, Porthos looks like he's about to be sick.

"You hurt?" Porthos asks, unfazed by Aramis light-hearted words. He hears the soreness of the man's throat loud and clear.

"I'm fine," Aramis croaks, then casually adds, "I just jumped over a cliff. With my horse. It was amazing."

"My horse collapsed, lost my boot and then had a wild fight with someone else's foot to get _his_ boot." Porthos is smiling.

"The body part that you fought with, was that your face by any chance?" Aramis asks with a gesture to his friend's forehead.

Porthos scowls and presses gingerly to the bruise at his brow. Quickly changing the subject he turns to ask Athos, "And you?"

"I fell off my horse and surrendered," Athos replies dryly, leaving out any heroic details. He needs his mind focussed on finding a way out.

"You surrendered?" comes a chorus from his friends.

"Yes. One of you was supposed to stay free and get me and d'Artagnan out." Athos says, smirking at his friends' cries of indignation.

They're doing this with ease, bantering between them. Still, Athos knows both Porthos and Aramis also feel the emptiness behind their words. All the words do is remind them a certain Gascon's sharp tongue.

Looking down at his heavy shackles and the thick door that keeps him from freedom Athos feels, not for the first time, absolutely helpless. It strikes him that now d'Artagnan is out of their reach and in danger, the irritation towards the Gascon has also tapered.

D'Artagnan was right about that at least, some time apart did cool their tempers. But Athos can't feel any relief about that. He would rather have d'Artagnan alive, well, and angry with him than in the situation the Gascon is now.

He needs to fix this. To apologise. To explain. To get d'Artagnan out of here alive.

He just doesn't know how.

* * *

The cell turns cold as the autumn weather finally catches up with France. D'Artagnan shivers, his skin contracting in goose bumps. White air puffs from his mouth and hangs above him like a misplaced cloud. Once in a while a shiver goes down his spine, rattling his broken body.

The remnants of the fire pokers are almost a blessing. Their burns heat his body inside and out. Sure, they hurt. _They hurt._ But they're a shield against the frigid air.

Teeth chatter. Chains rattle.

A scorching shiver. Time crawls and races by.

Numb agony.

D'Artagnan almost finds himself wishing for a white-hot poker. For warm blood down his back.

Anything for some warmth.

* * *

Chassroi sits in his study. The fire here blazes hot, the walls are lined with the deep purple that he calls his own. A tapestry hangs by the door. It depicts a bloody battle, corpses littering a field of death. Even that seems friendly in the homely firelight.

Seated in a plush chair, staring at the flames, the man tries to find a solution to his dilemma. He needs to find out where that letter is. He needs to intercept it and destroy it before the King can ever be warned.

When Chassroi heard that musketeers had come to the manor he had attacked only weeks prior, the nobleman immediately sent someone to find information about these elite soldiers. Since then he's learnt that the four men he has in captivity are in fact the 'Inseparables'. A group of tightknit friends… and a tag-along.

The Gascon had been described as brash, hot-headed and naive. The perfect target. Easy to break.

His man in Paris has neglected to tell him that the brat is also intelligent, loyal and stubborn.

And isn't that where the problem lies?

The Gascon will not break, and Chassroi is not arrogant enough to think that he can break the best of the King's elite with torture alone. If he plays his cards right, though, he may be able to use the men against each other.

It is with this thought that Chassroi calls up his guards, "Bring the young Gascon to the cell that holds his friends."

* * *

D'Artagnan is roughly pulled into the cell, two men gripping his shoulders tight enough to bruise. As much as the Gascon wishes they would let him walk, he knows he would probably just keel over if they did. Really, he has rarely felt as weak as he does now.

The light in this dungeon is dimmer than in the hallway, but there _is_ light, which is already an improvement from his own cell. Three figures lie prone on the ground, chains snaking from their arms to the walls. D'Artagnan recognises them just as they yell out his name in a chorus.

"D'Artagnan!" And there is so much relief in their voices, that he feels something warm and friendly well up in his stomach, something that he thought he might have lost with his ill-timed argument.

Aramis. Porthos. Athos.

Of course they're here. Of course they came for him. D'Artagnan doesn't think he's ever felt so much relief and so much trepidation simultaneously. Because he needs their support, but he cannot bear the thought of them getting hurt, or of them seeing him in this state.

Chassroi enters with that gliding walk that d'Artagnan has come to hate, and he smiles an abhorrently coy little smile.

"Ah," he murmurs, "It is always so much fun to see a reunion between good friends." Four cold stares pin him with a promise of enough blood to last them all a few lifetimes. No one denies their friendship or questions how the man knows about it.

Aramis lets his eyes glide appraisingly over d'Artagnan's figure. The Gascon is half hanging from the hands of the two men that hold him, unsteady feet constantly shuffling over the ground. The clothes he's wearing – not his own as far as Aramis is aware – are stained with blood in some places, and Aramis does not want to think on what that means.

Face marred by bruises and pain-lines, the young man still manages to shoot him a reassuring smile. Or, that's what Aramis supposes d'Artagnan attempts to do. In reality, it looks like a pained grimace that does little more that drive home how battered the Gascon really is.

Not for the first time since they learned of d'Artagnan's kidnapping, Aramis feels and immeasurable amount of guilt pool in his stomach. He is aware, in retrospect that his single-minded focus on the queen and the dauphin caused him to neglect the Gascon. At the time it had seemed natural, especially given the argument they had had. Now, eying the hunched and pale musketeer, the argument seems childish.

Retrospect is never very useful, Aramis muses.

Through the hairs on the back of his neck, Aramis can feel Athos' stare on him. The man undoubtedly wants to know Aramis' medical opinion on d'Artagnan. That's not really something Aramis thinks he can handle right now. Porthos, he notices, is alternating angry glares at Chassroi, and reassuring glances at d'Artagnan. Neither seem to be having much effect.

Before he truly realises what he's doing, Aramis finds his mouth open and running, "It seems like your looks have deteriorated since we last saw each other, my friend." He grouses, "Undoubtedly through lack of guidance on my part. I should have told you blood-red was not your colour."

The joke falls flat, and Aramis almost winces at his own words, unsure of why he uttered them. Then d'Artagnan quirks the corner of his lip in a very Athos-like fashion, and a weight lifts from Aramis' heart. It's good to know that, even when he's barely upright and looking half dead, the Gascon still has an atrocious sense of humour.

"I think that is quite enough catching up, for now." Chassroi cuts through their silent conversation.

The lord stalks d'Artagnan, moving closer with the sure step of a predator who knows it has its prey cornered. When he briefly touches the Gascon's hair, Porthos lets out a growl, while Athos pulls futilely at his chains, teeth grinding together loud enough for them all to hear. D'Artagnan doesn't move, he merely faces Chassroi coldly. He doesn't utter a single sound.

"Now, you will tell me where the letter is." Chassroi murmurs, hand catching one of the welts on d'Artagnan's back.

"What letter?" Three voices reply in unison. D'Artagnan smiles and only just manages to keep in a snort when Athos turns puzzled eyes on him. The Gascon shakes his head. This is hardly something he can explain without speaking, and he will not break his vow of silence. Chassroi will not get that pleasure, no matter what torture the lord puts him or his friends through.

"I will rip you all apart if that is what I need to do to find that letter." Annoyance is clear in Chassroi's voice. He has heard that answer one too many times. To illustrate his point, he slams a fist into d'Artagnan's ribs, making the Gascon's legs give way. If he were not being held up by Chassroi's men, he would certainly have fallen.

"You shall never find it." Athos drawls in an attempt to draw the attention away from d'Artagnan, "Even if you do, it will be too late."

"What do you mean?" It's a scoff, arrogant and sceptical.

"It has been at least five days since we found Vasser. We've sent our survivors to Paris, a three-day ride from here." Chassroi looks surprised at this, and Aramis prays to God that he is right, and that he has not just betrayed his fellow musketeers. D'Artagnan's head snaps up as well, dark eyes suddenly sparkling, as though daring to hope.

"What survivors? The paralysed man I left in the mud? He can hardly have gotten far." The smugness that emanates from Chassroi is almost insufferable. Porthos can feel a snarl building in his chest, but before he can let it out, d'Artagnan is pulling at the iron hands that hold him with a growl. It's the first noise they have heard him make, and Porthos is glad to know the Gascon can still speak.

"Did I hit a nerve?" Chassroi simpers.

"They will have reached the palace, and broken the news by now." Porthos interrupts, grabbing the attention away from d'Artagnan again.

"I'm sure the King is paranoid enough to believe his musketeers, with or without a letter." Athos adds, equally desperate to keep the Gascon from the other man's wrath.

"Then everything has failed." Chassroi challenges, "There is nothing holding me from killing you all."

"Oh, there is _one_ little thing." Aramis sing-songs, "The King will want to know who was in alliance with the earl."

"Information, I am sure, that is held within the letter you so desperately seek." Athos adds to Aramis' statement.

"The lord of the chateau, Antoine de Mausin, doesn't know who attacked him." the words sound so smug that Athos wishes he could cut the smile from Chassroi's face.

"He doesn't?" Porthos asks in a sweet little tone, adding his bit to his friends' net of lies, "Athos, tell me, how many nobles in France have their men where a purple sash as a uniform?"

"Only one that I'm aware of." Athos intones, "The du Beloucher's of Chateau Rouge."

"Which is _where_ again?" Aramis asks.

"In this area, I would imagine."

Chassroi eyes narrow at Athos' answer.

"Do you think de Mausin would know this?" Porthos continues.

"Naturally, he has been educated in these facts. As any nobleman is."

Chassroi seems to pale in the dim light, though his expression remains thoroughly impassive. His eyes flit between the men, landing on the youngest, still hanging between his guards. Even half conscious, he still imagines the captive to look smug at his friends words.

"You are lying." He tells the cell in general, voice flat and eyes smouldering.

"Ah," Aramis murmurs, "But are we?"

"I know that if it were my name in that letter, my downfall, I really wouldn't want to take the chance." Porthos finishes for Aramis.

Athos stares the man down, trying to find a weakness, a sign of terror in their captor's façade.

"Very well, I will make sure to find that letter," Chassroi murmurs finally, then, with a cruel strike to d'Artagnan's throat, he continues, "And I will not stop tormenting your friend until one of you divulges its location."

The sneer is back on Chassroi's face, as the three men squirm in their bonds. They open their mouths, seethe at him, but he has eyes only for the youngest of the group. d'Artagnan had shot up when he spoke, then gone practically limp, choking on the punch Chassroi threw.

"Bring him." He orders, exiting the cell and slamming the door with an ear shattering bang.

D'Artagnan is hung from the ceiling, once more. The chain that connects his hands is attached to a hook in the ceiling that slowly goes up, and up.

The cause may be lost, Chassroi thinks, but he _will_ keep is name clear. And if he does not manage that, he will take all those damned musketeers down with him. Actually, he ponders as he readies a whip, he knows he's going to kill them all anyway.

These musketeers have been altogether too much of a menace.

* * *

D'Artagnan wonders how long it has been. He had expected torture, harsh blows and menacing whispers. Instead, Chassroi had stood before him, whip running through his hands, whispering all the pain he would bring the musketeers. Threatening to strangle Aramis, to brand Porthos, to whip Athos until he begs.

Now the images won't leave his mind.

After an eternity of nothing murmurs in the dark, he finds himself back in his old cell. The one without his friends, without hope. Well, maybe not entirely without hope. They're all alive after all, and if his friends are telling the truth, the King's life is no longer in danger.

Constance's life is no longer in danger.

Isn't that a fresh breeze of hope?

Of course, if his friends are telling the truth, then d'Artagnan doesn't know half of what is in the letter he carried. (What letter?) And if Chassroi believes his friends that means only one thing for d'Artagnan right now. The man will hurt and hurt him until he either breaks, or dies. Then, he'll move on to the other three. There is no doubt in d'Artagnan's mind about that.

So he needs to hold out. As long as possible, to save his friends from pain and himself from indignity. There is no dignity in death, after all. There is also no doubt in d'Artagnan's mind about something else. _He will not break_. If it is the last thing he does, he will glue himself back together and ask the only question he possibly can.

_What letter?_

Even if the question is no longer relevant.

Even if his sanity is gone.

And then, maybe his friends will be right, and the King will have sent a party to look for the letter. And then maybe they will look for him, as well. Him, and Porthos, Athos and Aramis. And then maybe they will get out of this alive.

It's the only hope that d'Artagnan holds on to as the cold takes hold again.

* * *

They need out. D'Artagnan needs out. And they need to do it now. Their little plan, the one that Porthos and Aramis had perhaps gotten a little too carried away in, has failed spectacularly. And now their Gascon is on the line. Again.

Porthos feels the ache in his head spike. D'Artagnan should not have been caught, they should not have split up. Actually, that bloody earl should have just kept his Scandinavian hands off of the French throne. A shake of his head has Porthos wincing, still tender from the boot that hit it. With a sigh he wonders at the at the events that led to this. The discourse between d'Artagnan and Athos, the argument that left them all with cold shoulders and a pained heart.

They could have handled that better, all of them. D'Artagnan had been obnoxious and down-right rude at the time. But then, they all had. The implications that d'Artagnan could not handle himself seem unfounded now. It is clear that the boy knows what to do in a fight, knows his duty and his honour, and they had all known that. But worry had blinded them, and later anger.

Of course, that's just the tip of the ice-berg, Porthos knows. Something was said during that night in the pub with Athos, and judging from Athos' increasingly guilty silence, the comte has remembered. Whatever was said, Porthos does not need to know. What he does need to know is that Athos gets to apologise, and d'Artagnan gets to forgive the man.

Because Athos will drown himself in bottle after bottle of wine in d'Artagnan dies. But if the Gascon dies before their argument is truly resolved, it will be a river that Athos drowns himself in.

And Porthos may just follow him.

* * *

D'Artagnan is burning.

There's fire in his veins and it's consuming him. the burns feel like the hot poker is still on his skin, still scorching its way through flesh and blood. His back burns too. Red agony on every welt. The old gash on his side excretes filth that boils his very skin.

The darkness in the room is suddenly suffocating, filled with ghosts and memories he wants to forget.

What he wouldn't give for some reprieve.

A breeze. A cool carafe of water. Freezing snow.

* * *

As he paces the length of his study, Chassroi waits. He waits for his men to return from their reconnaissance mission. He waits for his messenger to return from Paris confirming the death of the King, or at least the death of the musketeers who bring the news that will save the monarch's life. He waits, for anything to prove what the musketeers said wrong.

On a primal level, he feels that they are right. That the birds have flown and that the King will continue to live and rule. He also knows that if his family's name is indeed written in that letter, that he needs to destroy it. The King will have his head for this treason, otherwise. Of course, they may be coming for him anyway, if the musketeers are left to live.

With a frustrated growl, Chassroi rips a purple cushion from a chair and throws it into the fire.

Bloody musketeers.

A tentative knock sounds at the door, "COME IN." Chassroi shouts.

A guard slips quietly into the room with the air of a man who severely regrets losing a bet. Closing the door behind him, he turns back to his lord and bows deeply.

"Monsieur, I am here about the prisoner." The man all but whispers.

"Of course you are," Chassroi sighs in exhasperation, "What have they done?"

The guard looks around in terror, eye falling on murderous tapestry, and his eyes grow wide. He gulps momentarily, eyes flitting back to his leader. Weighing his words as though every one costs a pile of gold, he says, "They have not _done_ anything, really, monsieur."

"Then what is the problem?" Chassroi snaps.

"The young one, the Gascon, he seems to have developed a fever. 'S not doing so well… I thought you might want to know." The guard says quickly, already moving towards the door again.

"He has a fever. A grave one?" Chassroi asks, friendlier this time.

"Yes, Monsieur." The guard nods.

The feeling of satisfaction at causing the Gascon enough harm to let him develop a fever disappears as soon as Chassroi truly realises what that means. D'Artagnan could die of this. And with him, the only leverage Chassroi holds over some of the King's most talented men.

"Fetch the physician." Chassroi orders.

"Du Boiseur?" the guard asks tentatively, "You had him executed when your brother passed away, monsieur."

He did, didn't he. What kind of doctor are you if you cannot heal a sick man? He eyes the guard for a moment.

"Didn't that healer woman from the village save your wife's life?" Chassroi questions.

The guard nods.

"Fetch her, then." With those words, Chassroi goes against everything he wants, and chooses to save d'Artagnan's life.

* * *

D'Artagnan doesn't know what it is exactly that wakes him. The instincts of a soldier maybe? Or perhaps the constant fear that thrums through him. Whatever it is, when two rough hands turn him over, his fist is ready and slamming into soft cartilage. What follows is an incredulous cry of pain and a string of curses that would put even Porthos to shame.

The world spins, grey and red and yellow, oozing at the corner of his eyes.

A new voice cuts in. It's higher, commanding. A woman, d'Artagnan's mind eloquently supplies.

The wold spins again as two sets of hands pull him upright. Keep him from falling.

Grey turns greyer, turns to rain. Voices speak and Alexandre d'Artagnan dies in the mud, bleeding out in his son's arms.

"What have you done to him?" a disapproving voice mutters over the rain.

" _We_ didn't do nothing but follow orders, ma'am." Another voice, one d'Artagnan knows, and associates with the whistle and the slam of a whip.

"Well Chassroi is mad if he thinks he can just break a man and expect me to mend him. This man is a human, not a toy!" Smaller hands probe forward, calloused and rough. There's a smell of pine trees and d'Artagnan remembers another wood.

With a dead man. With screams and broken bones, and Moreau and Vasser's blood saturating the ground. A forest without Porthos. Or Aramis. And certainly no Athos.

"I refuse to help a man just to let him back into your 'custody'. I am not a murderer." The female voice again. He thinks Constance would like her, they have that same fire in their words.

"Remember why you are doing this. To save France. To make it better." That's Chassroi. Disgust wells up in d'Artagnan as he hears the voice. _Liar!_ He wants to shout, _You failed! The King will survive, and you will be killed in his place!_ But words fail him.

"Torturing men and slaughtering kings is _better_?" The woman replies vehemently.

There is nothing for a while, low voices and burning in the dark.

"I will save this man, but make no mistake, I do it because it is not yet his time. Not for your whims." A kind hand settles on his forehead, and he opens his eyes to foggy faces and bright light.

Fire. Ice. Cold water and deep darkness. Burning flesh. And rain. Always rain. Always falling, never feeling.

Cries of death.

A whisper, voice unknown, yet so familiar.

"Do not give up." It comes in a cool exhale of air.

Three other voices, deeper, even more familiar. Somewhere in his mind.

A kind voice, burdened by prejudice and a terrifying past. _You're a stubborn brat, you can make it._ Stubborn. Mouth shut. What letter?

A soft voice, charming and laden with the words of thousands of scribes. _I know I told you of heaven, but now is hardly the time to test it._ Latin. Pater Noster. Hell, now. Fire.

A noble voice, once betrayed but still trusting and trustworthy. _There is no dignity in death. Remember that._ Dignity. Honour. Life.

_Life._

And d'Artagnan fights.

* * *

Athos tears at his doublet. The one advantage of his surrender is that he was allowed the dignity of his doublet, while those of Aramis and Porthos have been stripped. Of course, all other weapons have been stripped of him as well, but the metal hooks that keep his breeches attached to his doublet are still intact. He pulls at them, tearing through the fabric in attempt to get them loose.

Just one of those hooks, and he can pick at his manacles, get them loose and get his friends and himself out of this horrid place. It provides something to focus on. Something besides Aramis' laboured breaths as air whistles through his swollen throat. Something other than the intermittent hisses of pain that come from Porthos every time he moves his head.

Something other than the overwhelming lack of d'Artagnan's voice.

Athos does not know where the Gascon has been taken, or what is being done to him, but at this point he's almost hoping for a scream that will tell him the boy is still alive. That is all he needs, alive, the rest they can heal, and apologise for.

With a final hard tug on the hook, it comes free from the leather of his doublet. Shooting out slightly too far with the force that Athos used, it embeds itself shallowly into the comte's skin. With another yank, more careful this time, the hook comes free. Athos slowly sets to work bending the hook. Though not nearly as good at picking a lock as Porthos is, Athos is capable of getting himself free.

He just needs some time, and luck.

Though honestly, Athos sighs to himself, Lady Luck does not seem to have taken a liking to him at all.

After hours of picking, the manacle is loosens. Porthos and Aramis look as it slides from his left arm. One to go. Then the hands of his friends. A smile graces Athos' lips, pulling at the growing beard on his face.

D'Artagnan barely had stubble, even after almost a week. Feeling around in the lock on his manacle, Athos thinks of the taunts that Aramis will get out of that.

His smile widens, then falls.

_Be alive, d'Artagnan_ , he begs, _Allow me to apologise, to explain that we would be nothing without you. Just be alive._

* * *

It is cold and dark.

D'Artagnan wonders if this is what death feels like.


	11. Chapter 11

"Athos." Porthos murmurs and the comte looks up.

"What?" he snaps, time is of the essence, and though Athos enjoys conversation as much as anyone, now is not really the opportune moment.

"Let me do this." Porthos answers, not in the least hurt by his friend's harsh tone. Athos chooses to ignore him and focus on the lock he is trying to pick.

"You are concussed." He whispers, delving the bent hook deeper into the lock with shaking fingers. Porthos pulls his hands away, causing Athos to lose his grip. The comte looks up at him in frustration, but he large man merely raises his eyebrows.

"I am, and even then I'm faster than you at this." he grouses, grabbing the hook himself, "It took you half a day and an entire night to pick the lock on your second manacle… Really it's a miracle you got yourself loose at all!"

From the left hand corner of the cell, Aramis snorts. Athos shoots him something that would have been a glare, had he put any effort into it. There are quite a few things he would like to reply to Porthos' poor attempt at humour, but he decides against it. One brother to whom he has said unforgivable things is more than enough.

"I'll stand watch." Athos says instead, while Porthos grunts in agreement. He's trying to avoid nodding at present. One of the wonderful things about lock picking is that there is no need to look while doing it. It's simply a matter of fiddling with the inner workings of the lock, pushing up piece by piece, until it springs free. Which is good, because Porthos does not want to exert his brain too much at present. It's going to be painful enough walking, talking and fighting his way out of here.

Which a soft click, the lock breaks open, manacles falling to the ground.

"That was slower than usual, Porthos," Aramis croaks as the large man makes his way over to his friend, "Losing your touch?"

This is about the point where Athos lets checks out of the conversation. Half the things his friends will be saying will be completely facetious, and the parts that are not will be so layered in insults, that it would take a genius to unwrap them. The door of the cell creaks slightly as he pushes it open. There is no lock, and the only guard on duty is sleeping soundly by the door. It seems luck may be smiling on them after all.

" _Merde,_ Aramis!" Porthos swears behind Athos, and the comte turns to see what is going on.

"It is quite alright, my friend –" Aramis answers hoarsely.

"Oh, is it?" Porthos interrupts, "Well in that case I will not be putting it back in."

"Porthos…" Aramis sighs.

Athos shoots a concerned look towards the sleeping guard. With the way his friends are talking, it may not be long before the man wakes up. He attempts to shush them, but before he gets the chance, Porthos is speaking again.

"Were you planning on telling us your arm was dislocated?" Porthos mutters, still assaulting the manacles on Aramis wrists, "Or did you want to wait until you had to fight one-handed?"

"Your arm is dislocated?" Athos asks, an extra splash of guilt pooling in his stomach. He should have noticed, or at least checked the health of his friends before picking at Porthos' locks.

"It's _only_ dislocated, nothing serious." Aramis answers, exasperation colouring his voice.

Athos does not agree, but the does not get to display his dissatisfaction at Aramis' words. Their guard chooses that moment to wake up and see that the door is ajar. For a seemingly endless moment the guard and the comte stare at each other, both coming to grips with their new realities. Then the man opens his mouth to scream, Athos throws a well-aimed punch at the man's jugular.

Any sound the man was about to make is cut off with a choking gasp, and Athos follows through with a second punch to the man's head. As the guard falls and Athos shakes his aching fist, Aramis keens loudly and lets out a stream of Spanish curses that would make God himself flinch.

"Quit whining," Porthos mutters good-naturedly, casting Athos a twinkling gaze, "It was _only_ dislocated, after all."

"You're a butcher, you know that?" Aramis croaks with a wince. He gingerly turns his arm a bit, the pain of his fall still heavy on the joint. It is moments like these when he remembers why the medical aspects of their journeys are not left to Porthos. Though perfectly capable, his hands are rather rough.

Athos shakes his head, worry over d'Artagnan still etched in his features.

"So," he says, toeing the unconscious guard before him, "Who feels like dressing up?"

* * *

When d'Artagnan opens his eyes the world is still cold and dark, but he can see shapes twisting in the gloom, so that probably means he's alive. The world is strangely fuzzy, the hardness of the stone softened and blurred. It seems to tilt less than before, though, and the rain is gone. A hand runs over his head, and he cannot help leaning into its warmth. The fiery flames that engulfed him, even in the rain, seem to have disappeared. Now there is just cooling sweat and the wet chill of autumn.

"Awake, are we?" A voice sounds next to d'Artagnan. He turns to see two startlingly green eyes. A cup of water is pushed against his lips, and when he feels the cool liquid on his tongue, all he wants to do is drink, drink, drink. He'll guzzle down entire rivers if that is what it takes to quench his thirst.

"Not too much," the voice warns, "Your fever only just broke, we don't want to make you sick to the stomach."

"I was very ill?" d'Artagnan whispers. It's a question, but it may as well have been a statement.

"Yes." The woman's answers are straight and to the point. He vaguely remembers thinking she would get along with Constance, something he stands by still. D'Artagnan scrunches his brow, knitting them together as if that will help his thoughts come together, too. He remembers little of how he got in this dark room. All he can think of is shadows and a voice that makes his blood boil.

"What…?" He murmurs, digging for some sort of explanation.

"Chassroi," the name is spit out with contempt, "He decided to test a few interrogation techniques on you."

Just like that the memories come slamming back. A deadly battle, a sneering man, and the crashing of a whip. Pain. Lots of pain. Then Athos, Aramis and Porthos, the news that his other friends are safe. Chassroi again. What letter? He wants to ask after his friends, then he remembers another thing.

A vow of silence. D'Artagnan shuts his mouth again. Then he considers how impolite it is to ask nothing of the woman who – presumably- saved his life.

"What is your name?" he asks on the croak of a voice.

The woman smiles kindly, "Melanie."

D'Artagnan nods, he wants to thank her, but she speaks again before he even gets the chance.

"I will try to keep you here as long as possible, but Chassroi will come to fetch you soon. He is an impatient man." The woman informs him. Her eyes smoulder with anger towards the lord of the chateau. D'Artagnan can safely say the feeling is mutual. He cannot keep a shiver from rolling over his body at the thought of more pain, more _Chassroi_.

As if summoned by d'Artagnan's very thoughts, a set of terribly familiar footfalls sound down the hall. The steps, still far away, are accompanied by the loud voice of a man d'Artagnan really does not want to face right now. The woman's head snaps up as well, then she quickly turns back to d'Artagnan and meets his eyes.

"I do not know who you are, or what Chassroi's business is with you," the woman says with a kind voice, "But you have survived and withstood more than most men would. You seem like a very stubborn man."

D'Artagnan grimaces at that, the same words ringing through his head in the voices of all those he loves. The words are usually not much of a compliment. This time though…

"Use that stubbornness." The woman finishes.

Right before the door crashes open, and Chassroi enters, d'Artagnan speaks.

"Thank you." He tells the woman, then his lips close, and he returns to silence as his tormenter enters the room.

"Well, well. Look who is back from the land of the dead."

* * *

Two decrepit looking musketeers and a bedraggled guard stroll down the halls of Chateau Rouge. The guard, arm in a make-shift sling, leads his two prisoners along by their shackles. While the larger prisoner seems to be having entirely too much fun walking through the halls, the shorter one wears the exasperated expression of a parent grown tired of his children.

Looking closer, one might see the worry lines etched into the faces of these three men. Under their respective emotions they hide concern. It's this that makes Melanie notice them, as she looks up from her patient's cell. The very thought of the young man that she cared for back in the hands of Chassroi, makes her sick. She wishes she had the power to stop the lord of this castle from committing these horrible deeds (and if she stops him from breathing while she's at it, then that's only more reason to try). But she has three children, and a village full of people who rely on her medicinal knowledge. One thing she cannot afford to do, is die.

The unlikely trio has stopped before the cell, the guard pulling at the men's chains with a one-armed tug.

"Excuse me, Madame," he starts, his voice more charming than that of any guard she has ever met, "Would you happen to know where the other Musketeer is held prisoner? Monsieur Chassroi has requested we bring them all to him."

Melanie looks at him for a moment, mind reeling at a guard who took two men out of their cell without permission. Not only this, but a guard who blatantly lies about Chassroi's orders. Mostly, though, her mind reels at a guard asking after her patient.

"Chassroi just came to collect him, as you would very well know if you were truly one of his guards." She answers, eyes roaming over the three men at the door, they look sheepish at being found out, but something in their stance tells her that they will walk right through anyone who tries to stop them, "Have you come to save the poor boy?"

Three heads shoot up at once. The eldest of the three eyes her curiously, as if putting together pieces of a puzzle that only he can see.

"Yes, we have come to save him." he starts calmly, then follows up with a slight narrowing of his eyes, "Will you aid us?"

"I quite enjoy being alive, and I have three young children at home, so I will not be joining you on any adventures," Melanie states as she stands up and wipes the dirt from her dress, "However, I will tell you everything I know about your young friend, and you may do with it as you wish."

"That is all we could ask of you." The largest man states. Dry blood is crusted over his cheeks, and she notices a squint in his eyes that signals a concussion.

Hand on the doorframe, Melanie looks out into the hall. Apart from the three musketeers, it is empty. She waves them inside with her hand, and raises her brow sceptically when they hesitate to come in.

"I only wish to check your injuries and tell you of your friend's condition. I am hardly going to try to overpower three men twice my size." She tells them.

The would-be-guard chuckles, then holds out his hand, "My name is Aramis, and these two are Porthos and Athos."

Grasping his hand tightly, Melanie answers, "I know, he muttered your names as he slept."

The men nod, then they walk into the cell to hear what she has to say.

* * *

They take d'Artagnan from his cell and hang him from the ceiling. Again. He is really growing tired of this constant moving, this constant pain that follows the voice and steps of Chassroi. Not to mention the fear, the heart-stopping terror that grips him every time he is led to this dungeon of agony.

He's barely standing, already hanging from his arms, when someone cuts his shirt from his body. With the sleek stroke of a knife, the linen is gone, with another, d'Artagnan's skin is slowly split down the middle.

"I'm going to cut you up." Chassroi says lovingly, "Then I'm going to fetch your friends, and they can watch as I cauterize your wounds. We don't want you to get another fever, after all."

_Another_ fever. D'Artagnan almost scoffs, clearly recalling Melanie's indignant words when Chassroi came to fetch him.

_"The worst of the fever has broken, but it is still there!" Melanie had practically shouted at the man,_ _"He is weak, still. He needs to rest."_

_"I am counting on that weakness." Chassroi had sneered, face close to d'Artagnan's, as he pulled the Gascon up and out of the cell._

And he does feel weak. It is almost like the muscles in his legs have disappeared overnight, like the pain in his body leeches away all the energy he has. Three more strokes of the knife, and d'Artagnan is well and truly hanging, muscles in his arms screaming at him to stand.

Yet the muscles in his legs have yet to come back, and all there is, is pain.

"I'm really hoping I can get you to scream again," Chassroi whispers as he gradually sinks a blade into d'Artagnan's shoulder, "That really got a reaction from your friends last time."

The blade isn't long, and d'Artagnan knows that he won't bleed out from the wound. But it's like fire under his skin. A burning snake that slithers in and out and bites every piece of flesh that it can. It's hilarious really, that Chassroi wants him to scream.

Because right now? Right now there is no air. Not for d'Artagnan at least. Just pain.

And lungs can't function, can't scream, on pain alone.

What letter? He reminds himself. _What letter?_ The blade comes down again, the intricate carving of a pattern in skin. That calm darkness of nothing, that rainy fever of death, he wishes for them now.

Death may be void of dignity, but it is also void of pain.

* * *

The three musketeers exit the armoury weighed down by an arsenal. Melanie was to kind as to show them to the weapon's room, and they're quite ready to take on anything between them and their Gascon. After Melanie insisted that they eat, Porthos' head was cared for and Aramis' arm hung in an actual sling.

Taking a right turn back down to the dungeon's, Athos feels his heart constrict. He doesn't know in what condition d'Artagnan will be when they find him, but he swears that if Chassroi is in that room with them, the lord will be dead before he can even open his mouth to speak. Actually, even if Chassroi isn't in that room, Athos will personally see to it the man is murdered in the most painful way possible.

The halls down here are cold, and the torches cast ominous shadows through their flickering flames. The cells around them are silent open doors calling for Athos to look in. He is itching to do so. Just to see if there are people in there. People who have been tortured into silence. People who are dead.

People who have ended up like d'Artagnan will _not_ end up.

Footsteps run down the stairs behind them, and the three musketeers quickly jump into one the closest cell, hiding behind the door in the dark. Harsh breathing sounds through the hall, shuffling feet that move further and further away until they come to a sudden halt. At least five men. There's more shuffling, too far away to hear, and voices sound through the hall. Though muffled by distance and the density of the walls, Athos clearly recognises one particular voice.

_Chassroi._

A passive-aggressive exhale of breath comes from Porthos, while Aramis merely scowls. They can't do more than listen until they've found d'Artagnan.

The feet move down the hall again, Chassroi's clearly among them.

"What do you mean you don't know where they are?" Chassroi bellows, "How far can they have gotten? They don't exactly know their way here!"

Athos smirks at that. _We do now,_ he thinks, _thanks to Melanie_.

When the musketeers no longer hear the steps or the voices of Chassroi and his men, they move from their hiding place. Slinking slowly up the hall, they look into every cell for d'Artagnan. They round a corner, and a bored-looking guard jumps up in surprise.

"GUAR-" he begins to shout when he sees them, then Porthos fells him with one punch. The door that the man was guarding is slightly ajar. Athos centres himself, taking a deep breath before he reluctantly pushes the door open.

The cell is stuffy, the smell of sweat and blood permeating the air. There's something else too, stronger still, the smell of burnt flesh. A fire burns hot to the side, Athos sees, a still-hot poker haphazardly thrown next to it.

D'Artagnan hangs in the middle of the room, the chain between his manacles hanging from a hook in the ceiling. The Gascon's head hangs down as if trying to figure out why his legs no longer bear his weight. Blood seeps in slow drips from d'Artagnan's torso, staining the ground.

For a moment time stands still. The three musketeers stare, nailed to the ground, thrown even after all the horror they have seen by the image before them. Something about the scene is almost intimate, like walking in on another's nightmare.

* * *

Then Athos is moving forward, reaching out with shaking hands.

"D'Artagnan…" He whispers. Hesitantly, he lifts up the head of his protégé. The Gascon has his eyes closed, his mouth shut in a firm line. Athos has no doubt that beneath the lips, he's biting on his tongue to keep from shouting.

"D'Artagnan, open your eyes. Please." D'Artagnan doesn't, but he tenses when Porthos reaches up to the hook that keeps him in place.

"Hold him in place." The large man says, then d'Artagnan is crumbling down, caught by four hands. Aramis curses his dislocated shoulder and looks on as his friends lower the Gascon to the floor.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos starts again, desperation sounding in his voice now, "Please say something."

D'Artagnan's eyelids flutter, then open to reveal glazed eyes. It's typical, Porthos muses, that when Athos asked d'Artagnan to open his eyes, he did not. And now that he's been asked to do something else, he obliges.

"Can you speak?" Comes Aramis' ironically rough voice.

* * *

They're here. All three of them. Alive. Fine. Saving him.

Always.

How they got loose, how they found him, he doesn't really care. They're here. That's what's important. Fire still burns over his skin, an echo of the poker that was used to cauterize a particularly deep wound, but the fire in his heart softens to embers. It's just a friendly fire now, warm and soothing.

They're asking him things, so many questions, and something in d'Artagnan rebels at the thought of answering any questions at all. Can he speak? Of course he _can_.

But he mustn't. Because Chassroi cannot know.

Still, these are his friends, and he owes them an answer.

D'Artagnan licks his lips, then whispers, barely audible the only answer that he knows.

"What letter?"

Then his eyes close again.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I think we need some comfort after all this angst, yeah? Read this for some heart-felt apologies and action. 
> 
> (Some of the dialogue might seem slightly ooc here and there. Oops.)

Athos looks at his friends in despair. The things that d'Artagnan says can be random at times; most thoughts that he has jump from his mouth the moment they spring into his head. Sometimes they don't make much sense, but with a bit of thought, they can always be figured out. He is always, _always_ articulate, though. Now, this sentence, is not. It's barely a slur, and it comes out like repetition, like the Latin texts that Athos had spent hours learning by heart in his youth. He remembers them, word for word, but their meaning is lost to him.

The thought that d'Artagnan has been reduced to this, to these two words, makes bile rise in Athos' throat. There's anger somewhere in him, lust for Chassroi's blood on his blade, but mostly fear.

Both Aramis and Porthos return the look, worry in their eyes. Aramis drops to his knees, and lets his one useful hand run over the injuries on d'Artagnan's chest. Moving back slightly, Athos recognises his friend's need to check on their friend.

Porthos on the other hand, reaches out immediately to pat the Gascon's face. "No, d'Artagnan, open your eyes. Stay with us."

For a moment, Athos is back in another place. A courtyard filled with drunk men, his hand around his wife's throat, and the angry charade he had almost started believing in himself. Then the shot had gone off, and d'Artagnan had fallen. They were in the same position then, Aramis checking the wound, Porthos attempting to wake d'Artagnan up, and him in the background. Staring, unable to help. He had owed d'Artagnan an apology then, too.

But it's not the same, he reminds himself. Anne isn't here. There is no need for him to stay back, and he won't. Not again.

D'Artagnan's eyes blink open again, lids fuzzy and eyes unfocussed. Then he twitches away from Aramis' hands with a wince, and stares at his friends around him. The moment seems endless, until his eyes latch onto Athos. The comte tries to portray as much apology and sheepishness as he can, as he tries to figure out the Gascon's state of mind from just his eyes. There's pain obviously, both physical and mental, but there's no accusation, only something like relief shining from d'Artagnan's dark orbs.

The same relief floods into his voice as he croaks, "You came for me."

"Of course." Athos says, and his friends nod in agreement.

"All fine?" He slurs after that.

"Right, ask _us_ if we're fine…" Aramis mutters.

D'Artagnan smirks, then a memory assaults him. His friends, saying Vasser was alive. He needs to know that more than anything, he realises.

"Vasser?" he asks.

"Alive, the others too." Athos tells him with a frown, then adds, "Thanks to you."

Suddenly, d'Artagnan's eyes open wider, his breathing quickening, "Chassroi…" he murmurs, "Where is Chassroi?"

"Not here." Porthos assures him, "He's somewhere in the château looking for us."

D'Artagnan nods, and closes his eyes again.

"That does mean, though, that we have to move soon or we will be found." Athos quietly starts, then he shoots Aramis a look, "Can d'Artagnan walk?"

"I'm right here." D'Artagnan says indignantly, eyes open and locked on Athos, "And I am perfectly capable of deciding whether I can walk, thank you very much."

Aramis snorts, then eyes d'Artagnan critically. His mouth twists into a disapproving pout, and he says, "We met Melanie. She told us about your injuries and your fever."

D'Artagnan nods. "She is a very brave woman. Gave Chassroi quite the tongue-lashing." He tells them.

"I'm sure she did." Aramis says with a smile, "She also told us that you were barely capable of standing before Chassroi inflicted his newest torture on you. So forgive me if I'm a bit sceptical of your ability to walk."

D'Artagnan scowls. This entire situation is disproving, once again, everything that he has said about being able to handle himself. He is glad to see though, that his friends' anger has all but disappeared. As has his own, of course. Between everything that has happened over the past….. week? D'Artagnan doesn't even know how long. What he does know is that the events transpired since their separation have erased all this anger towards his friends. There's still bitterness of course. Shooting pain over Athos' words. Lingering regret over his own. And fear over how easily the other two had seemed to side with Athos. It all seems trivial now in the wake of his torment.

He thought he might never see them again, and whatever happens after this, even if they do relapse into their clash, he will be happy that he was allowed at least this moment with this friends.

"I can carry 'im." Porthos says, with entirely too much cheer in his voice.

"There will be no carrying!" d'Artagnan says loudly, "I can walk if you support me."

At the three sceptical looks that are thrown his way, he adds, "I promise I will tell you if I no longer can."

Athos nods at that, while Aramis simply purses his lips.

"Fine." Is the Spaniard's short answer, "But let me at least dress your wounds first."

As he quickly ties strips of linen – kindly given to him by Melanie – around the worst of d'Artagnan's wounds, he regrets how little time he has. The Gascon is still pale and warm to the touch, many of the cuts are still weeping, and judging by the bruising on his ribs, there may also be internal damage. He really wants to check more, to search for infection, but there is only so much he can do with one hand and limited time.

Porthos is at the door, standing guard in case someone comes, but as soon as Aramis calls that he is finished, the large man comes over. Aramis sighs. He knows how this will play out. With his arm still in a sling, there is nothing he can do to help the Gascon, so it will all be left to Porthos and Athos. Mostly Athos, Porthos will need to keep from draining too much of his energy because of his concussion.

With some dreadful manoeuvring, and more than one grunt of pain on d'Artagnan's behalf, they get the Gascon into a standing position. His legs are weak, and Porthos swears he weighs less than he did the last time he was in this position, but d'Artagnan locks his knees. Indeed, as he promised them before, he can walk with some help. His arms are swung over Athos' and Porthos' shoulders to steady him, and his breath comes out in harsh pants.

When Athos casts a concerned look over d'Artagnan, Porthos knows the man is thinking he same as he is. The Gascon may be up and walking, but that is only by sheer force of will.

Stubbornness can only get a man so far. Porthos dreads what comes after that.

* * *

Passages wind like snakes before them, each different, but somehow all inherently the same. Cold, grey stone greets the musketeers everywhere they go. Had Melanie not had the presence of mind to share the inner workings of the castle with them, they would surely have been lost by now.

Still, their hearts beat loudly, echoing through the halls like beacons to those who seek them. Thus far, they've been lucky. No Chassroi, no guards, not even any maids have crossed their path. But every corner is terrifying. Every shadow is a potential threat.

They're nearing the back entrance, it's a near the servant quarters and it's rarely used by Chassroi. In fact, Melanie didn't even think the man knew where it was. They're two passages away when they hear the guards coming. Heavily booted feet crash through the halls, and Athos looks back in worry.

"Hurry!" he tells his friends unnecessarily, and speeds up his pace.

D'Artagnan can barely keep up the renewed pace, and they only manage a few steps before his legs buckle. Athos almost loses his hold on their charge, but Porthos manages to keep him up. Together, they guide the Gascon to the wall where they help him down to rest for a moment. The sound of soldiers has retreated somewhat, but Aramis and Porthos still share an anxious look.

"Wait here, we'll go and cut the guards off." Porthos suggests.

Athos head snaps up in disagreement, he speaks on a shake of his head, "You're hurt. Both of you. I should…"

Athos gestures, unsure of _what_ exactly he should do. Anything is better than what Porthos is suggesting though. Then Aramis locks eyes with him, nodding his head silently towards d'Artagnan and smiling sadly. Porthos nods at the gesture, eying Athos as well.

Athos knows what they're saying. _He is not doing well. He needs to be kept safe._ Aramis' eyes tell him. Porthos seems more direct in his look, eyebrows raised expectantly. _He needs you._ Athos almost swears at his friends, but he does not want to upset d'Artagnan, who seems to be holding on to consciousness by a thread.

"We can handle this." Aramis reinforces his silent words, "You need to watch out for d'Artagnan."

The unspoken, 'and apologise' hangs in the air. Athos wonders when it became so obvious that there is anything to apologise for. He looks back at the Gascon, the fact that he has yet to protest Aramis' words showing just how bad his health really is.

"Also, I really want to test some of the weapons I stole." Porthos smirks.

Athos does not so much as smile at Porthos' attempt at humour. He does nod, though, and his friends disappear around the corner, their small arsenal of weapons at the ready.

"Are you awake?" he asks d'Artagnan.

Bleary eyes open, lined with pain, and Athos can't help but tilt d'Artagnan's face up towards him. He thinks of the peril they're in, thinks of two of his closest friends fighting injured. Of his youngest friend, his brother, too weak to stand.

With a lurch in his stomach, he realises this may be it. This may be the day they all die. Here, in a gritty chateau where no one will ever find them. And he still has unresolved issues with a stubborn Gascon he would not think twice of giving his life for.

"D'Artagnan?" he queries again.

"Mmmmh." Comes d'Artagnan's muffled reply.

"I need you to listen to me." Athos intones.

"I am." The Gascon says, and his eyes focus on Athos face.

"During our… separation, I recalled the rest of the events in the tavern." Athos starts hesitantly. If possible, d'Artagnan pales even further, then he smoothly averts his eyes. Athos continues softly, resolve in his voice now, "Why didn't you tell me back in the infirmary?"

D'Artagnan muses on that with this fuzzy mind. He is not quite sure why, actually. Maybe, as long as he was the sole keeper of that memory, he could pretend that he had dreamed it. That Athos does not believe him to be the cause of his father's murder. True as they are, those words _cannot_ be forgiven. But d'Artagnan _needs_ to forgive his friend.

"Do we have to speak of this _now_?" he asks instead of answering. He doesn't want to think about Athos remembering his words or the implications of that.

"There might not be another time." Athos whispers, eyes shooting to the corner that Porthos and Aramis disappeared around, "Most of what I said was untrue. This mission alone has proven to everyone that you are perfectly capable of holding your own. Even before that, I think I knew, I just wanted to keep you safe."

Athos curses inwardly. What he's apologising for now is only trivial, it's not really the part that broke d'Artagnan's heart. And the Gascon knows it, that's why his eyes are closed and why he is leaning away from Athos against the wall.

He's not good at this, Athos knows that about himself. Apologising not too difficult, nor is making people believe it. Making d'Artagnan believe just how much he means to them, that is more difficult. It's also something he would have let his friends take the reins in, had it not been his words that caused this breach in their brotherhood in the first place.

"The things I said, they… came out wrong. What I meant, d'Artagnan, is that you have one of the biggest, kindest hearts that I know. You've got an intense hatred of injustice, and –"

"That's not what you said that night," d'Artagnan murmurs, there's no heat in his voice, but he's obviously sceptical of Athos' words, "If you're just saying this because I'm injured…"

"No!" Athos retorts immediately, then pleads, "That's not… Let me finish."

D'Artagnan nods, and the comte continues, "I said that your hot-headedness would get us killed. What I meant is that if you die because you selflessly try to stop some sort of injustice…" Athos shakes his head, the thought of that happening unbearable, especially with the Gascon injured before him. "… Our brotherhood would not survive that. I do not think I would either."

D'Artagnan nods shakily, hoping beyond everything that this is real, and not some fabrication of his imagination brought on by his lingering fever.

"And about your father, d'Artagnan," Athos hedges. D'Artagnan truly flinches now, "You had no hand in his death. I realise that I implied that, but d'Artagnan, you must believe me, that was a drunken slip of the tongue."

D'Artagnan looks away again, and like before, Athos reaches out and pulls the Gascon's face to look at him. The next words he says almost reverently, "There is not a single part of me, or anyone else, that believes that you are in any way responsible for your father's death. The fact that after a year, you still believe that you are, is a reflection on me and my lack of support."

D'Artagnan looks up at him now, frown on his face.

"I promise you, when we get back to Paris, we are going to have a conversation about guilt and grief." Athos continues.

" _You_ are going to lecture me on guilt?" d'Artagnan asks with a chuckle. Athos sees the irony in his words and fixes the Gascon with a half-hearted scowl.

"I will try. If it helps you, I will _always_ try." Athos says, and then uncertainly, "D'Artagnan, my words that night were wrong, dishonourable, and unforgivable. Though I do not deserve it and I know I should not be asking this of you, I am loathe to lose you over an argument like this. Therefore I ask, do you think that, over time, you could forgive me for this?"

D'Artagnan looks at him blankly. Sweat glistens on his face, and the bruises on his pale face only serve to drive home how difficult this week has been for d'Artagnan. Also, how Athos may lose him today, in more ways than one. He knows that the Gascon has every right to say no, and though it will pain his very soul, he will honour that answer as well as any other.

"Athos," d'Artagnan speaks, in that voice that says _you're-overthinking-this_ , "You are already forgiven."

Athos expects relief or happiness. But the words make his chest tighten, and his breath still in the air. Something seems to be lodged in his throat as he looks down at this brave, stubborn, forgiving man and wonders, what this world has done to deserve a man like d'Artagnan, what _he_ has done to deserve a brother like d'Artagnan.

* * *

The heavy footfalls that signalled the guards booted feet have all but disappeared. The halls here in are not quite as dark and cold as the ones underground. Down by the dungeons there's an atmosphere of pain an death, but not here. This is a place where people work, where the hustle and bustle of servants usually marks the whitened halls. Which is why the quiet is so disconcerting.

Porthos and Aramis don't speak for a while after they leave their friends. They're both aware of the danger that they've thrown themselves into. While Porthos head pounds with every step, and swift movements of his head send white spots into his vision, Aramis is not much better off. Breathing still slightly stunted, he has only one arm to defend himself with.

It's still better than even the _idea_ that armed guards would get their hands on d'Artagnan. Again.

"He looks so broken," Aramis' whisper carries softly through the hall. There's no need to mention who 'he' is. Porthos will know. The large man's feet stutter slightly. The kid is beat up, sure, but he's not dead.

"Nah," he answers, "He ain't broken. A little bent at the edges is all."

The answer is inherently Porthos, both reassuring and endlessly optimistic.

"Do you suppose Athos is apologising?" Aramis asks then, and Porthos snorts.

"He had better be," he says fiercely, and then, "And I suppose, when we get back we'll exchange apologies as well. We need to leave all this behind us before the chance is wasted."

Aramis is nodding in agreement to his friend's statement when they finally catch up to the guards. Rounding a corner, they come eye to eye with six heavily armed men.

"Three each," Aramis calls jovially to Porthos, "This is going to be fun."

With a chuckle, Porthos pulls a musket from his heavy belt, and aims. Due to his slightly blurry vision, his shot goes sideways, and only wings the guard he was aiming to incapacitate. The man springs forward with a growl, rapier in hand and already swinging Porthos' way. He dodges the blade easily and pulls his own sword. He brings his sword down harshly from above, allowing for more power behind each strike.

With the clang of metal, and loud grunts of exertion, the musketeers match their foes' every move. When a particularly hard hit reverberates into his previously dislocated shoulder, Aramis almost bends double in agony. As he does so, he sees, in the corner of his eye, two of the guards split from the rest of the group.

"The others must be down where they came from!" the broader one shouts over his shoulder to the rest. Aramis' heart stutters. They're going after his friends. It'll be Athos against two people, with a dead-weight musketeer to protect.

This thought alone is enough to give Aramis the additional strength that the needs to overcome his pain. The soldier who delivered the hard hit is still in front of him, picking his rapier off the ground and ready to split Aramis' bowed head from his neck. The musketeer punches the man in the stomach with his good hand and, in a move of excruciating agony, grabs the sword arm with his injured one. He wrestles the rapier from his foe's grip, and cuts deep into his jugular, only to swing the blade around to his second opponent.

Porthos, Aramis sees, has also managed to bring down one guard, the man lies on the ground with his neck at an unnatural angle. One against one.

Aramis smiles. It seems the odds are finally in their favour.

* * *

Before Athos can deliver a suitable answer to d'Artagnan's forgiveness, he hears loud steps down the hall. Not Athos or Porthos; this tread is unknown.

The booted feet come closer.

Athos makes to move, to cut off the assailants before they get to his injured friend. He tries very hard not to think what it means for Porthos and Aramis that the opponents have even managed to reach this hallway.

Suddenly, d'Artagnan's hand shoots out, holding his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. Athos turns to the Gascon.

"Don't go. You'll get yourself killed." The boy whispers, voice hoarse from abuse.

With a small shake of his head Athos intones, "I will do what I can to save your life, d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan's answer is to meet him with a glazed, but steady gaze, his voice is stronger when he says, "Don't die, Athos. Remember, there is no dignity in death."

Something in Athos' chest clenches as his own words are thrown back at him. They were true when he said them, and they are true now, but that matters little in the face of his brother's suffering. D'Artagnan's hand slips from his arm, apparently no longer strong enough to stay clenched around the bicep.

"I remember." Athos gives a watery smile and hopes that his voice is as steady as he thinks it is. Not usually one for affection, he feels he can make an exception at a dire time like this.

"I will return for you." He promises with a slight touch to the Gascon's bloody torso. Even as he says the words he knows he will most likely have to break his vow. Now that he has apologised, and been forgiven, the thought is not quite as unbearable. With a flourish, he hands a main gauche to d'Artagnan. Just in case.

D'Artagnan no longer possesses the strength to do more than whisper a pleading, "Athos..." and follow his mentor with sorrowed eyes. He's not stupid. He knows a lie when he sees one.

Athos has already turned away, he is moving up the hall towards the voices of their captors. He will try to return, but will not resent Death if it comes. There may be no dignity in death, but there is certainly dignity in saving a fellow musketeer. In fighting for a friend.

In dying for a brother.

* * *

Patience has never been one of d'Artagnan's virtues. He is aware of this, and though he often tries to compensate, he rarely fools anyone. Now, sitting with his back against the wall, he feels his impatience surge again. Athos and Porthos are off somewhere, probably getting themselves killed, Athos is facing who knows how many foes alone, and for what? For him? A broken musketeer who may not survive this journey, regardless of his friends efforts?

He's in a bad way, he can feel it. The heat that he had felt before, in his cell, is back. It burns through his blood and his energy again, and d'Artagnan hears the listless beating of his heart reverberate endlessly in his head. Apart from that, everything hurts.

All the welts from the whip, the cuts from the knife, the hot poker that will give him nightmare for months… He can feel them all like they're still on his skin. Inside he can feel bruised ribs, the muscles on his arms stretched to a breaking point. Not to mention the way his left hand has been throbbing since he was taken. He thinks it may have been broken when he struggled to avenge Vasser.

Vasser… Who is not dead, thank God.

That leaves him here, injured, weak. Useless. He sighs in frustration. Athos has only just apologised to him. He has yet to speak to his other two friends about his own harsh words.

He's not just going to let them die.

So, with more difficulty than he likes to admit, d'Artagnan manages to get himself upright. The manacles are still around his wrists, his friends did not have enough time to release him of them. It doesn't matter much, because they're bound in front of him, and he is free to walk.

In a stumbling gait, gripping the wall with all his might, d'Artagnan follows his friends.

* * *

Athos finds two men walking towards him, as soon as they spot him, they grin.

"I think we've got us an escaped prisoner!" One yells, while the other moves to get past Athos.

Athos stand in the middle of the hall, he will not allow anyone to pass. These guards, whoever they are, will only get to d'Artagnan over his dead body. It makes the fight more difficult, though, because he cannot use the entire space around him like he usually does. Still, Athos isn't the best swordsman in the garrison for nothing, and he will not be bested by just two men.

Naturally, as soon as he thinks this, another man rounds the corner at his back, attracted by the sound of metal on metal. Immediately, Athos shifts his priority to the newcomer, who is by far the closest to d'Artagnan. With a few fierce blows, he attempts to get the man on the other side of the hall. This fails when the guard who spoke earlier opens his mouth again.

"The other one, he's-" the man begins, but Athos cuts him off with a sudden lunge of his sword. The soldier drops to the ground, blood dripping from his lips. This abrupt move, however, unbalances Athos, and he finds the hands of the man behind him on his left arm, twisting it against his back. He throws his head back to get loose, but the third man, who arrived with the dead guard, is already on top of him. A harsh kick to his knee sends Athos to the ground in pain. He can practically feel the kneecap shift to the side.

_This is it_ , Athos thinks, _I just hope they're too stupid to find d'Artagnan._

Suddenly, the man at Athos' back is gone. With some manoeuvring, he twists out of the hold of the other man, punching him hard enough to make Porthos proud. The man goes down like a brick, and Athos quickly grabs the man's main gauche. When he finally turns to see what happened to the man behind him, his heart skips a beat.

Because, d'Artagnan is there. Stupid, brave, loyal d'Artagnan. The Gascon is barely standing, lips thin with pain in an ashen face, but the chain between his manacles is wrapped around the neck of a burly guard. The guard chokes, face purple from lack of breath, then falls back. D'Artagnan is unsteady on his feet, so when the man falls into him, they both go down.

There's a cry of pain as the Gascon hits the ground with his injured back. Athos is pulling the soldier off him before he even manages to open his eyes again.

"D'Artagnan!" He cries in worry, hands brushing away sweaty hair as d'Artagnan attempts to compose himself.

"Here." The Gascon croaks through gritted teeth, "I'm still here."

"That was a stupid thing to do." He spits at d'Artagnan, but there's no real heat behind his voice. He's just glad to see the man is still alive.

"As stupid as running off to fight three men on your own?" d'Artagnan asks as his eyes flutter open, mirth in all his features. Athos sighs. Aramis and Porthos are really starting to rub off on the boy.

Summoned by his thoughts, it seems, the two missing members of their brotherhood come tearing across the hall. Or, Aramis comes tearing, while Porthos stumbles along in a fast pace with one hand on his head.

Skidding to a stop some two feet away from them, Aramis lets a sigh escape. He's a little worse for the wear, he wears a few new bruises and a ruined sling. Porthos seems to be doing alright, considering. There are no visible injuries, but he does curse like a sailor when Athos asks him how his head is.

"Let's just get ourselves out of here," the Parisian concedes, "'Bout time we left his special piece of hell."

His friends nod, and soon most of d'Artagnan's weight is on Porthos' shoulder while Aramis pops Athos' kneecap back with ease. The comte lets it happen to him with a grunt of pain, but refuses to look at his knee while it's happening. He's seen it before, with others. The sight of the bone moving under skin is slightly sickening. When that's done he stumbles after his friends towards the servant exit. Aramis hovers near him, granting Athos his healthy shoulder to lean on when the pain gets too heavy. All in all, though, they make good time in getting out.

The door is in a kitchen, where the smell of broth fills the air while cooks and maids run around busily. They get a few strange glances, but manage to sneak through the busy kitchen almost unnoticed. That is, until Porthos stumbles against a pan. The pan falls down with enough noise for an entire orchestra, and the nearest heads turn to them in unison. The four musketeers stand there sheepishly for a moment before they slowly start making their way to the door again.

"What on Earth do you think you're doing?" A woman asks, hands at her sides, one of her eyebrows raised.

"We…." Aramis starts, searching for an excuse, "We're looking for the village?"

The woman doesn't even dignify that with an answer. Instead, she raises her other eyebrow.

"We were sent through here by Melanie." Athos tries then.

Something in her face clears, then. She wipes her hands on her apron, and picks up a basket of some sort.

"Everyone back to work!" she yells at the servants, then turns back to them, "Melanie told me some friends would be by. I hadn't quite expected her friends to be convicts, though."

Athos takes the basket in his hands, the smell of bread billowing from it.

"Thank you." He tells her honestly.

"Don't thank me. I'm not doing this for you, but for Melanie. God knows I owe her everything." The woman answers strictly.

"We don't mean to get you in trouble, Madame." Porthos warns.

The woman chuckles, then tells him with a wink, "Don't worry, no one ever asks the cook."

The musketeers nod, and make their way out. For a while everything seems to be going well. Though their gaits are uneven, and their feet constantly trip over roots, their pace is steady. By some miracle Porthos manages to keep both himself and d'Artagnan on their feet.

After about an hour or so, the Gascon starts flagging. His feet stumble constantly, and his head hangs on his chest.

"Can we…." D'Artagnan pants, "I need… to sit…"

Athos looks around in fear, but nods anyway. His knee is killing him, and he can see his friends are not doing much better in terms of ailments. They find a reasonably sheltered place to sit. Between two large trees, and enough underbrush to cover half of Louis' palace, they're almost entirely hidden from view.

The basket comes out, and they break the bread between them, taking large gulps of water from the skins they were given. Silently, they all thank Melanie and the goodness of her heart.

Finally, things seem to be looking up.

* * *

A loud curse sounds from the servant quarters in Chateau Rouge.

"How can four men, three of which are bloody injured, best _seven_ of my men?" Chassroi yells, spit flying from his mouth, "Why am I surrounded by incompetent fools?"

The guards shoot each other concerned looks, while they crouch down by their friends. Three are dead, one is dying, and two have yet to wake. Three men, probably four, who leave behind widows. And still Chassroi cares only for the capture of those men.

"They will have flown, by now." Chassroi murmurs, "Find them for me."

His men stay silent, their minds still filled with grief over their colleagues.

Chassroi looks around at his men, and recognises the look.

"Now you see how dangerous these men are. They murder with ease. With pleasure." Chassroi lies, "Find them for me, and deliver them to me. And when I am done with them, I will let you have your revenge."

The men look at each other with determination. One man lets his mouth curl up in a smile. As one, the guards move to find the four errant Musketeers.


	13. Chapter 13

Night brings an all-encompassing chill. The ground hardens and the trees quiver in the meagre breeze as their leafless branches hide the four shivering Musketeers from sight. They lie close together, sharing the heat from their bodies as sleep almost eludes them. Only Athos still has his over-layers and he has already given half his clothing to d'Artagnan, who was left bare-chested by his latest torture. There is still a heat deep under his skin and the Gascon sleeps fitfully because of it. It's a strange contrast next to Porthos who sleeps like the dead. Courtesy of his concussion.

With a rub to his knee, Athos stares deep into the underbrush. He keeps out an ear for any approaching soldiers. Behind him, d'Artagnan tosses his head and whispers a broken 'no'. The comte stretches a shaking hand over to his brother and lightly grabs his shoulder. The Gascon stills at his touch, but the anger in Athos' stomach does not.

The thought of d'Artagnan's dreams send shivers down Athos' spine. The can scarcely imagine what the Gascon must have gone through during his captivity, but the wounds and the dreams on his brother alone make his blood thrum faster. Before this moment, Athos has never really understood the term 'bloodlust'. He has always thought himself too rational for such a notion, too steady and in control to let his heart be ruled by the need to kill. Even when Thomas died, he never lusted for his wife's blood. He had loved her too much to want her dead. What he feels when he thinks of Chassroi, though, can only really be described as that; bloodlust.

Judging from the angry glint in Aramis eyes when he wakes from d'Artagnan's moan, he feels the same. The Spaniard sits up gingerly, twisting to keep his weight off of his injured arm. He shivers.

"The cold will sap our strength." Aramis whispers softly. Athos hears _the cold will sap d'Artagnan's strength._

"Yes. A fire would be ideal," Athos answers just as quietly, "But that would give away our position."

Aramis just sighs, staring out into the empty twigs. Then he moves abruptly and reaches out to Athos' leg. His hand hovers above the knee for a moment, questioning gaze pinning the comte down. A simple nod is all Aramis needs as permission to feel his brother's swollen knee.

Just then, a twig snaps in the distance and both musketeers whip their heads around. Voices sound through the forest, harsh orders and heavy boots. It wakes Porthos. With the quick alertness that he has had since his very first night in the Court of Miracles, his eyes are open and his hand is on the closest weapon. He shares a sleep-drenched look with Aramis in an attempt to find out just how much danger there is at the moment.

Aramis shakes his head in a silent gesture to be quiet, and naturally d'Artagnan chooses that moment to start murmuring in his sleep as he is gripped by a nightmare. Within a second Porthos has his hand over d'Artagnan's mouth to stifle the sound.

Though Porthos expects the Gascon to wake up, he doesn't expect the startled flinch that runs through the man, nor the wide, frightened eyes or the painfully hard grip on his wrist. Only when he sees Porthos' face, does d'Artagnan relax. His eyes are no longer quite so wide, but his hand still holds the wrist.

The look twists something in the Parisian's heart. He doesn't know why the fear in his brother's face comes as such a surprise, but he finds that he is taken aback by it. _He looks so broken_ , Aramis had said as they were walking down the chateau's halls. Back then, Porthos had denied it. D'Artagnan seems by his very nature impossible to break. No matter how hard he falls, how hard they work him, trick him and corner him, he _always_ gets back up. Always with the same determined scowl. Always with a cocky saunter and a sarcastic quip. Now, Porthos can't help but feel that maybe the Spaniard was right. Perhaps this time, the Gascon won't get up. Perhaps this time he _can't_.

Looking towards his friends, Porthos can see the same fear in his brothers' faces. The fear that they were too late and that, though they have him back physically, they will still lose their youngest brother to the demons that Chassroi left behind.

"We should move out." Athos says quietly, "I do not like the feeling of sitting here like a duck waiting to be shot."

Though none of the musketeers particularly feel like walking, they know that that Athos is right. They may be hidden at present but it will not be long before the soldiers, who know this forest better than they do, find this hiding place. So, they nod in silent agreement.

After finishing the last bread from the basket, they head out. D'Artagnan held up by Porthos, while Aramis strolls out in front with their remaining musket held at the ready and Athos limping behind them with a keen ear out for their aggressors.

* * *

The cold hand of d'Artagnan's nightmare still lingers around him like a mist. Every time he closes his eyes to blink, he sees the flickering light of the torches in the dungeon, he sees flashes of red pokers and blinking teeth in a horrid grin. He swears that sometimes when he breathes in through his nose he is met by the smell of burning flesh, he feels an unbearable heat and stabbing pains in the slightest move of Porthos' arm on his back. Even the taste, sweat and pain like blood on his tongue, lingers between his teeth.

In his dreams, he had been back. Worse still, he had betrayed the king. He'd been brought to another room, just as dark, just as painful. From there he'd looked out over the court in front of the palace, he'd seen the King executed, the Queen and Constance following suit. His friends' heads had already been put on stakes before the palace gates and Chassroi had whispered a lilting, "All dead thanks to you. I'm going to have so much fun rewarding you for that."

That was the moment he had felt the hand snake around his mouth. For a moment, he had been absolutely terrified of Porthos, and that is what scares him. The fact that he was so far gone in his mind that he no longer knew his own friends. The thought that it can happen again in the future.

_You're broken_ , a small voice whispers in his mind, and he bids it to disappear. He is _not_ broken. He simply won't allow himself to be, won't give Chassroi the pleasure of that accomplishment.

They stumble over a particularly large root and d'Artagnan almost goes down. Athos hisses when he reaches out to catch d'Artagnan and his knee turns strangely and d'Artagnan hears the whistle of a whip in the back of his mind. He flinches, and Porthos digs his fingers into d'Artagnan's arm slightly harder than necessary.

"You alright?" The large man sounds worried, though d'Artagnan suspects the frown in his brow is mostly at the pain in his own head.

A simple nod doesn't seem to suffice as an answer because Porthos grabs his other shoulder.

"After what you've been through, you don't have to act strong. It's alright to _not_ be alright."

D'Artagnan smiles slightly, "I know." He says, "But I _will_ be alright."

And it's true, because Porthos is holding him up like a stone, Aramis is guiding him out of this horrid place and Athos is guarding his back. Just like always. Three protective Musketeers on a mission.

That, d'Artagnan muses, is something Chassroi can never compete with.

* * *

After two hours of walking, Athos is ready to chop off his leg. It would probably be less painful and they would certainly make better time than they are doing now. They're all tired, he notices. Aramis' breath is wheezing again, and d'Artagnan looks half dead. Even Porthos, strong and steady despite his head wound, has started stumbling over the solid ground.

They need to rest but with their pursuers hot on their heels they really cannot afford to. More and more, though, Athos is starting to think they may have to risk it.

Between the bare trees the ground disappears in a sudden drop, eight feet of empty air that has been hewn from the rock by the river far below. Aramis signals it to them with a cautionary wave of his arm as he tries to look for a way across.

"This was the canyon I jumped over with my horse," Aramis says with something like pride in his voice, "Would be good to have a horse now…"

Porthos snorts. "This was the canyon? I thought you meant an _impressive_ jump, not a small hop."

One corner of Athos' mouth curls up. He's missed that careless banter over the past hours. D'Artagnan looks up with a gasp, something completely different on his mind.

"Buttercup!" he cries, "Did you see what happened to her?"

The other side of Athos' mouth also curls its way up now as he shakes his head. Of course d'Artagnan, who was kidnapped and tortured for days, is worried about his _horse_. Sometimes, he swears he's working with children instead of full-grown musketeers.

The thought is erased a moment later when an all too familiar voice sounds from behind them.

"Buttercup? That wouldn't be the yellow horse we captured would it?" Chassroi calls.

The four Musketeers spin around immediately. They're met by ten soldiers with purple sashes, their weapons drawn and ready to attack. In the middle stands their leader, hideous smirk still plastered on his face.

Chassroi steps forward with a predatory grin, looking at d'Artagnan like he is a piece of particularly scrumptious meat. The Gascon himself is standing with Porthos' help, leaning into the man for support while Aramis has his musket raised and pointed right at Chassoi's face.

It is with an almost clinical eye that Athos assesses their situation, which is dire. There is no way that they will be able to fight their way out of this and it is rather unlikely that a the soldiers will suddenly change their minds and turn on their leader. Also, despite his words to the contrary, Athos knows that de Mausin was unaware of who attacked his lands and didn't divulge any name in the letter. There are countless scenarios, but there will be no rescue and any other situation can only end in death. Because Porthos has his hand wrapped so tightly around d'Artagnan's arm that it is clear he will only let go when the fingers are broken off one at a time. Aramis, too, will greet death with a last shot from his musket. A shot right between Chassroi's eyes.

"I see you've salvaged my favourite toy," Chassroi spits, with a frenzied timbre to his voice that is new to everyone but d'Artagnan, "I'd like to have him back."

A shiver runs down Athos' spine as he wonders when Chassroi's business with d'Artagnan went from gaining information to inflicting pointless pain. The Gascon pales considerably, his mouth snapping shut on the retort he was about to make.

Athos steps protectively in front of his friends, hand on his rapier, more than ready to meet his end if it gives his friends even a second more time. The sheer thought of d'Artagnan back in this maniac's hands makes Athos' blood boil. Though the Gascon has one of the strongest characters he has ever met, Athos doubts he can handle another second with Chassroi. D'Artagnan doesn't have the experience, the callouses and elephant skin in his psyche to handle a blow like this. Not yet. And it is Athos' duty to protect him from ever gaining those things. Athos likes him much more with his youthful, naïve countenance.

It's with a voice so calm that he surprises even himself that Athos says, "You will have him over my dead body."

"Over _our_ dead bodies." Porthos adds in a growl, "And we'll take you all down with us."

"Don't worry, there will be plenty of corpses here. But first you will tell me where that letter is." Chassroi says.

The silence that follows is only broken by Aramis absentmindedly blowing to reignite the lit fuse of his musket.

To Athos surprise, d'Artagnan speaks. He's hoarse, and an almost manic sound colours his voice, "The letter? That letter is at the palace, King Louis is in all likelihood already sending out his men to kill you."

"You cannot possibly know that. That is just a guess made on pure faith." Chassroi tells him sweetly.

"Is it? I have faith in my brothers' honesty. I have faith that my fellow musketeers have fulfilled their mission. I have faith that King Louis will punish you," d'Artagnan speaks with so much heat that he has to draw in a gasping breath, "Mostly, I have faith that once you have met your sticky end, you'll be falling straight to hell."

Chassroi narrows his eyes and takes another step forward. Athos raises his rapier as a warning not to come closer.

"You have a lot to say for a man who conveniently kept his mouth shut when he was at my mercy." Chassroi whispers and a snarl rips from Porthos' throat as Aramis' finger twitches on the trigger.

"Unless you want to be at _our_ mercy," Athos drawls, rapier still raised, "I suggest you do the same and hold your tongue."

Chassroi simply shakes his head in denial, "You tell me where the letter is and I'll be merciful."

"He just told you, it's in the King's hands." Porthos grouses, his grip on d'Artagnan never loosening, "You're a dead man walking."

Then Aramis cocks his head, "Ah, but it's not about the letter anymore, is it?"

Understanding dawns on Athos now, too. Aramis is right, the letter is no longer the most important part of this conflict. For a moment Athos is shaken by the dawning realisation that d'Artagnan has pissed off this man enough to make him throw all caution in the wind in an attempt to punish him.

Then Athos narrows his eyes at Chassroi. He understands, like every landlord does, the importance of a man's name among his subjects, "It's about reputation among your men. You can't have your people thinking that you are soft, you cannot have them whispering behind your back that a young musketeer managed to challenge you without consequences."

"This _is_ about reputation. The reputation that has been slandered in that letter." Chassroi spits, motioning for his men to move in closer. Before anything can happen, though, d'Artagnan is speaking again. His legs shake and his face is the colour of death but his voice manages to stop the soldiers in their tracks with its fury.

"Athos is right. I know your type, Chassroi. Vicious landlords who believe they own not only the land, but also the people living on it. You collect too much taxes and sent too little to the King, then when the King complains you speak of revolution and unfit monarchs as you run your own land to the ground. Really though, you don't care how he speaks of you, so long as you can keep your tenants in hand with an iron grip of fear and poverty." The words are spoken with an unexpected strength and ferocity.

For a moment Athos is taken aback by the insight that d'Artagnan is portraying, not just into this awful man, but into the politics of France. His words speak of experience. Perhaps the Gascon is not quite as raw as Athos expected, perhaps he has invisible callouses and scars outside of his father's death.

Then d'Artagnan addresses the soldiers around them, "He keeps you on his hand in the same way, threats and empty promises… Whatever he promised you today, don't expect too much of it."

"He promised us your head on a stick, you think he'll come back on that?" One of the guards snarls.

"That he may give you." Concedes d'Artagnan with a cynical smile Aramis hopes never to see on his face again, "But nothing more. That is how men like Chassroi protect their capital."

"Says the farmboy." Chassroi mocks.

Though is voice is raspy and his body is tired, there is a fire in d'Artagnan's eyes when he raises them to Chassroi.

"Says the farmboy from _Gascony_. My home has been under so many hands and so many rulers that it doesn't know better than to tear itself apart. And no one really ever helps, because we're not quite France and we're not quite Spain and even the English had us at some point. What never changes, though, is the lying and the stealing. It's not the king that tears us apart, it's lesser nobles like you, who fill their pockets over the backs of their people. Men like you destroy us."

Silence fills the forest then and Athos wishes he could turn to look at d'Artagnan, but he cannot risk to let down his guard. He can practically feel Porthos raise his eyebrows, though, as the man lets out a surprised huff. Aramis simply chuckles.

"I always knew you had more brains than we gave you credit for." He says.

Chassroi ignores him and addresses d'Artagnan, "Being the 'lesser noble' that I am, I would like to make a deal with you. You hand yourself over and in return, your friends leave freely."

Aramis jumps in immediately with a, "I just told you d'Artagnan is not as stupid as you would expect. He won't do- "

"Yes." D'Artagnan replies, already stepping forward.

The reactions are instantaneous, the voices of three musketeers rising up indignantly.

"Never mind, he _is_ stupid." Aramis says darkly.

"He'll have to rip you from me." Porthos says through gritted teeth as he pulls his brother closer.

Athos merely lets out a warning "d'Artagnan…"

One of the guards allows is sword to drop and turns to Chassroi in fury. "You promised we would get retribution!" he growls.

Chassroi simply shrugs, "You will get retribution on the Gascon. The rest is just a price to be paid."

The soldiers grumble, but they listen to their lord. Chassroi is still standing in the same place, head cocked and impatiently tapped the seconds away with his right foot. Athos' eyes never stray from the man's face, ready at any moment to protect the friends standing behind him.

There's an aborted growl, and suddenly Porthos is limping forward with d'Artagnan. He passes a surprised Athos, then gingerly releases the tight grip on his brother's arm. With a death glare in Chassroi's direction he watches their Gascon move towards his tormentor. Aramis cocks the hammer of his musket in warning, a soft sizzle sounding as a spark is sent through the fire-arm. Beside him, Athos moves forward to intercept d'Artagnan on this foolhardy mission, but Porthos stops him with a heavy hand against his chest.

Struck dumb by the move, Athos stops in his tracks while betrayal curls in his stomach. Even when the larger man shakes his head, Athos cannot quite wrap his mind around the fact that Porthos - the most fiercely loyal of them all – is willing to sacrifice their youngest. He pushes against the strong hand that's holding him back, words of protest on his lips as he opens his mouth. But he's too late.

Because d'Artagnan is standing right before Chassroi and he's going to be killed. All Athos' fears are going to come true.

Then four things happen at once. The small dagger that d'Artagnan was given to protect himself slides gracefully from his sleeve. Porthos lets his hand fall from Athos' chest as he swings a large fist at the nearest guard and, as d'Artagnan lunges forward with his weapon, three shots ring through the air.

In a movement so automatic that Athos barely realises he's doing it, he parries the blade that swings by his chest. As metal hits metal, Athos finds himself hoping four things with the desperation of a madman.

One; he hopes they all survive this.

Two; he hopes one of the shots he heard was Aramis'.

Three; he hopes Chassroi is still alive when he finishes with this opponent, because he wants the pleasure of personally ending the traitor for all he has done to their youngest brother.

Four; he hopes that it will hurt.


	14. Chapter 14

In Porthos' experience, the word 'deal' is never followed by anything good. Agreements that call themselves deals are rarely favourable for both parties, either one side comes out as a firm winner or both sides end up dissatisfied. When it's a man like Chassroi who speaks of a deal, then what follows will certainly be bad.

So as the lord sweetly suggests a deal, Porthos can already feel the  _request_  for d'Artagnan's life coming and his fingers reflexively twitch tighter around his friend's arm. Aramis laughs and starts saying that d'Artagnan is not stupid. Athos stands firm because Chassroi's deal is ridiculously bad. But Porthos knows what d'Artagnan will answer. He knows that d'Artagnan will say yes because, contrary to what Aramis' jests may suggest, Porthos is in fact an excellent judge of character.

And d'Artagnan is as brave as he is stubborn. So  _naturally_ the self-sacrificing idiot will give his life for them.

When the Gascon says  _yes_ , Porthos is already pulling him closer and spitting threats. D'Artagnan turns to him abruptly, eyes connecting with his. The Gascon is blatantly unsurprised by his friends reactions, they are as predictable as his own response, but there's a plea in his eyes that Porthos can't help but answer.

It never ceases to amaze Porthos how easily d'Artagnan has wormed himself into their tightknit little group. The Gascon has somehow managed to bypass years of prior brotherhood and military training and become part of them with such ease that Porthos forces himself to stand back sometimes and marvel and the whirlwind that has roiled into their midst.

Now, he's giving Porthos that look, a silent question, an soundless conversation. And Porthos understands what he's saying.

_Let me go._  d'Artagnan pleas with wide eyes. With a simple narrowing of his own, Porthos replies;  _never._  Then the Gascon's stare flits briefly to his right sleeve and Porthos allows himself to follow the gaze. He sleeve looks bulky, ill-fitting because it was made for a rogue comte instead of a stubborn farm boy. When the Gascon twists his arm slightly, Porthos can see the vague outline of a dagger under the leather and understanding dawns.

D'Artagnan plans to hand himself over to get close to Chassroi, only to strike him down when he least expects it. It's a good plan. A dangerous one, obviously, but better than any that Porthos has come up with. He glares at d'Artagnan for a while longer, begging him to come up with something better. But, as usual, the stubborn Gascon does not budge.

It's with a growl and a tug on d'Artagnan's arm, that is probably harsher than strictly necessary, that Porthos complies with his friend's plan. He hopes to convey  _if you die, I will bring you back to life just to throttle you_ in his growl, but he doesn't quite know if he manages it.

When he breaks through his circle of friends, he finds it physically difficult to let go of his brother's arm. He does, eventually and he shoots one last lingering look as d'Artagnan turns towards Chassroi.

_Please don't die._

D'Artagnan answers with a half-smile that means  _I won't, be safe._

Athos moves behind them, stepping forward to intercept d'Artagnan. Porthos sets a heavy hand against his chest, stilling the comte mid-step. He shakes his head, wills his friend to understand that there is a plan involved, but it is clear that Athos cannot see through his own desperation. His own feelings of betrayal.

Something in Porthos' chest constricts; he's seen that look before. It's the same look that crosses Athos' face when he speaks of his wife, the look of betrayal that can only come from former love. Porthos can scarcely believe that Athos would think this of him, that Athos is so ready to believe that he would sacrifice one of his brothers. It doesn't last long though.

Out of the corner of his eye, Porthos can see the dagger slip from d'Artagnan's sleeve and he twists around to punch the nearest guard in the face. There's a crunch as bone gives way under bone. Fist defeats nose.

Three simultaneous shots go off, but Porthos pays them no mind. He elbows is way through men, frisks blades from soldiers' fingers, kicks and knees whatever body part is closest in the hope that it is something sensitive. Still, he can't see what has happened to d'Artagnan. Can't see what the Gascon is doing because every time he looks up he's met by a fist or a face.

He can't see if d'Artagnan is still  _alive._

* * *

Aramis curses the day that he convinced his friends to give d'Artagnan a chance in their little group. It's not an unusual occurrence. In fact, now Aramis thinks about it, it happens about three times a day. At least. He doesn't curse because he dislikes the boy, or wishes him away, he curses him because he loves the Gascon too much. The boy really does too many dangerous things for Aramis' liking.

In recent circumstances, with the love of his life and his son on the line, Aramis has found renewed admiration for Constance. Constance who, despite her lawful marriage and her words to the contrary,  _loves_ d'Artagnan. She loves him despite the fact that she knows how brave and impulsive the Gascon is. Despite the knowledge that she can lose him in a second. How she manages to sleep at night is anyone's guess.

It's a miracle that a smart woman like Constance fell in love with someone as stupid as d'Artagnan, Aramis sometimes thinks. Stupid, because intelligent people don't agree to deals like the one Chassroi proposes. Intelligent people don't trade their valuable life for their friends in the knowledge that Chassroi will undoubtedly come back on his side of the deal. Intelligent people don't walk, wounded and traumatised, up to their aggressor and hand themselves over on a silver platter. They just don't. Not when they know how much the people around them care.

_How,_ Aramis thinks aggressively, staring at d'Artagnan's retreating back like it has wronged him (and it has)  _how do you expect me to tell Constance that you are dead, you stubborn Gascon?_

But Porthos is at his side, and if Aramis trusts anything, it is Porthos sheer sense of loyalty. So Aramis attempts to quell the stab of betrayal in is chest at his friends' actions and decides that there must be a plan… Aramis refuses to believe anything else.

Still, his finger moves of his own accord and cocks the hammer of the musket in his hand. Moments later, when d'Artagnan lunges forward with a dagger, his other finger twists around the trigger. A bang sounds through the air as a bullet soars.

Then there's a sword swinging his way that he nimbly sidesteps, followed by a fist. His view of d'Artagnan is obscured. He can't even see if his shot hit his target, can't see if Chassroi is lying still on the ground with a bullet in his head.

He hopes it though. He hopes even more that d'Artagnan is still breathing. Still okay.

Aramis slams the butt of his musket into someone's head. He feels blood and sees a blade drop to the ground where he can pick it up. As he brings it up, swinging, he thinks of d'Artagnan. Today, more than ever, Aramis wishes he had never let the Gascon into his life.

Then again, what a boring life that would be.

* * *

Despite the knowledge that his plan is the best they have, d'Artagnan didn't really expect Porthos to agree with it. The man generally doesn't, when it comes at the cost of the life of another. But d'Artagnan is nothing if not stubborn, so he wins. This time.

Saying he'll step forward and kill the man who has tormented him for near on a week is something very different from actually standing in front of Chassroi. D'Artagnan's entire body aches and the very sight of Chassroi's smirk seems to make the welts on his back burn. He stands tall and silent, though. Chassroi will not have the pleasure of seeing his pain.

The lord whispers, so softly that only d'Artagnan can hear it, "Here we are again; you, helpless against me."

D'Artagnan smiles sarcastically, tensing up as the man moves closer. It's instinctual now, he realises, to move away from the man who has caused him so much pain. He forces down the shudder that comes over him at Chassroi's lilting voice and looks the man straight in the eye.

When the two of them are close enough that they could touch if they wanted to, d'Artagnan slowly lets the dagger slide out of his sleeve. One more step, and Chassroi reaches out a tentative hand. The dagger slips out completely, sharp edges cutting through d'Artagnan's palm as he lets the blade slide through his fingers until he can curl them around the hilt.

Chassroi's hand clenches around d'Artagnan's shoulder hard, unwilling to let him go and d'Artagnan takes his chance. He lunges with the dagger, embedding it deep in the man's stomach and twisting it up in hopes of doing damage to the lungs. Still looking into Chassroi's eyes, the Gascon can see the realisation of what's happening. The shock, the terror. The pain.

Behind d'Artagnan the world falls apart. Knuckles hit flesh. Metal hits metal. Flint ignites and muskets fire. The Gascon has eyes only for the man before him. There's a strange satisfaction in killing this man, the man who has caused him so much pain and fear, but there is no pleasure. He feels none of the glee that he saw reflected in Chassroi's eyes every time the whip cracked, just anger and relief. Like a burden lifting from his shoulders.

Before the thought can truly form, a musket-ball flies past d'Artagnan's head and takes Chassroi's ear off. The blood splatters into the Gascon's face and he recoils in shock, blade slipping out of flesh as his left hand unconsciously clutches around the fabric of Chassroi's clothes. That was Aramis, d'Artagnan is sure of it. No one else can manage to shoot past d'Artagnan but hit Chassroi. The man's knees give way, and d'Artagnan does not possess the strength to keep him up. Nor to keep himself up, for that matter. He slumps down gracelessly, releasing Chassroi so he can catch himself before his face meets the ground.

Blood bubbles around Chassroi's mouth and d'Artagnan can see life slowly seeping out of him.

D'Artagnan wants to say something. He wants to mock the man like he has been mocked for days. He wants Chassroi to forever associate his voice with agony and disdain. In his mind, d'Artagnan has countless words lined up, countless insults and threats.

_I don't think you'll be needing that letter, after all._

_Have fun in hell._

_Don't worry, I had something up my sleeve._

Before he can choose one, or even open his mouth to say something, he catches the glint of a blade out of the corner of his eye. With a speed born from instinct alone, he twists around and slashes at the closest body part he can reach. As it turns out, that body part is a leg, and judging by the shout of pain above him, d'Artagnan's aim is as true as ever.

The man's balance teeters, rapier clattering to the ground as he clutches at his injured leg and d'Artagnan takes the opportunity to stab deeply into the second leg as well. That turns out to be a mistake, because the man crumbles to the ground. Or, not  _quite_ to the ground, because his fall is broken by none other than d'Artagnan himself.

If d'Artagnan had enough breath left in his body to yell out, he would. As it is, the weight man crushing him stills the air in his lungs and sends white spots dancing into his vision. He thinks he hears his name being called out, but with the blood rushing to his brain, he really can't be sure.

How ironic, d'Artagnan muses, to defeat a man only to be smothered by a dying body.

* * *

Athos carves his way through men and steel and frankly anything else that decides to stand between him and d'Artagnan. The echoes of the musket shots have died down, the loud scuffle of fists and swords the only sound under the midday sun. No obnoxious remarks on the weather from Aramis, no dangerous growls from Porthos and no emotive yet witty remarks from a certain Gascon.

Bodies lie strewn around Athos, some moaning, some dying. And he can finally  _see_. He can see Chassroi, twitching through every difficult breath he takes, blood still seeping from his stomach an mouth. He can see a second man, half conscious and moaning in pain as his legs lie at strange angles and tinge the dirt red.

And Athos can see a third man, underneath the second. He recognises the hand first, fingers splayed and unprotected by leather. The gauntlet is familiar as well – his own, caked with blood and dirt. Add to that the matted black hair and the stained shirt and Athos knows who the man is. The man still, crushed under the weight of another, with enough blood on his clothes to last a lifetime.

"d'Artagnan!" He cries out hoarsely as his feet move of their own accord. The Gascon does not move.

No. NO. No. Not d'Artagnan.

Athos crashes to his knees next to the Gascon, already pushing against the body that is crushing his friend. He man lets out a strangled yell as he tumbles the rest of the way to the ground, fingers twitching towards his legs as he stares up at the sky in agony. Athos pays him no further attention. Instead he lets his fingers dance over d'Artagnan's slack face. He smooths back dark hair and runs a careful hand over the bruises and abrasions that colour the Gascon's face.

"D'Artagnan. Open your eyes." He whispers. He should be feeling for a pulse, listening for stilted breaths to see if the man is still alive but he can't bring himself to do it. Because, what if there is no pulse? No air from the lungs? What is he supposed to do, then?

D'Artagnan, obstinate as ever, does not do what Athos asks him to and keeps his eyes firmly shut. A man cries out behind Athos and he looks around to see a someone falling under Porthos' heavy fist.

"I said,  _stay away from them._ " the large man spits, before shooting first d'Artagnan then Athos a worried look, "Is he…?"

Words fail the comte de la Fere, and he shrugs. At the look on Porthos face, he finally turns to d'Artagnan to find out how… If… Porthos lays a hand on his shoulder, warm and steady. Athos' hovering fingers shakily pick up d'Artagnan's wrist as he feels for a pulse.

* * *

Stumbling slightly, his injured arm throbbing like a hymn, Aramis makes his way over to his friends. He can see d'Artagnan now, can see him lying on his back, pale and still. Athos leans over him, shoulders tight with stress, looking for all the world like Porthos' strong grip is the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Athos is reaching out for d'Artagnan's wrist, undoubtedly to check the pulse and Aramis' feet stutter.

What if there is no pulse? What if he loses another brother to a senseless massacre? All this time, Aramis has been trying not to think of massacres, trying not to look at the bodies around him or the blood-soaked ground they lie upon. He tries not to think of Savoy. Not to think that maybe they're just as bad, razing all these people to the ground. Because most of the men are still alive, wounded yes, but alive. And if d'Artagnan survives this, it will have been more than worth it.

Aramis steps forward as Athos' finger lands on d'Artagnan's pulse. It stays there. Long. Aramis' feet are still carrying him forward.

Then Athos' head bows and Aramis' world falls apart.

* * *

For the second time in a month, the palace gates slam open with enough force to dent the walls. Kind Louis, who was conversing with his Swedish friend, Axel Porse up until a moment ago, holds in a shocked shriek. Instead, he stands to face whomever is entering. Storming in with a look of thunder on his face, is Captain Treville. He is flanked by six musketeers who all spread around the door, allowing Treville to approach the King.

"Treville!" Louis exclaims in surprise, "We're not taking audiences at the moment."

"So I've heard." Treville answers, still striding forward and Louis wonders if he should be more firm, more  _king-like_  and order the man away. Before he gets the chance, Treville is speaking again. "However, I am afraid this is a matter of life and death."

"Life and death?" Louis asks in wonder.

"Yes, Your Majesty. Your own." Treville answers, now stood right in front of Louis' throne. Beside him, the Swedish earl seems to flinch.

"Someone is planning an attempt at my life?" Louis asks, feeling small and vulnerable. The child of a murdered father once more.  When will the danger to his life finally stop?

"Yes, Sire. By someone very close to you." The voice Treville speaks in is rough with anger, and he shoots a distrustful look towards the earl that would have gotten him a dressing-down on a better day, "I have a letter from your uncle; De Mausin. In it you will find proof of my words."

"You will not say who it is that wishes me dead?" Louis asks, wondering if Rochefort would have been more forthcoming.

Treville takes a bloodstained letter from his doublet, laying on top of his hand as he waits for the King to take it and read. He inclines his head slightly, then says, "Not until you have read the letter, Your Majesty."

Louis eyes the letter, the childish part in himself unwilling to pick up something as dirty as the parchment that is being held before him. It his hardly fit for a king, after all. However, the other part of himself, the king, the  _father_ , extends a hand.

The letter does, indeed, bear de Mausin's seal. Red and unbroken it stares at Louis like a beacon.  _Read me_. The seal breaks with a satisfying crack, and the parchment, rough with disuse, opens easily under his fingers.

_Cher Cousin,_

_Though I am always happy to enquire after your and your family's health, or how the Kingdom is being run, I am afraid that today there is no time for pleasantries. Your life, and perhaps the lives of the Queen and the Dauphin, are at stake._

_Some days ago, though nearing a week when you read this, my home was attacked by a unidentifiable noble who sought to either kill me or turn me against you. I am told it happened in much the same way as the attack to the Boirgeaux-Parcet manor. Who the attacker is, I do not know. But he is a man who knows the area, and his men are well trained. We managed to capture two of the attackers, and after some interrogation, they admitted their plan to us._

_I will be blunt about it._

_Axel Porse, your Swedish friend, is planning a coup d'etat._

_Be careful cousin. Do not let him in. If you have already done so, I would suggest arresting him as soon as possible. Once you have done so, I have two men in my custody who would be willing to witness against the Swedish Earl._

_Stay safe, cousin._

_Remember; your will is law, use it well,_

_Antoine de Mausin._

Louis is frozen. His eyes have passed over the sentence  _Axel Porse, your Swedish friend, is planning a coup d'etat_ , at least four times. He can feel the presence of the man next to him, strong and twice Louis' size. He can feel, not for the first time, betrayal curling in his stomach and wonders why he is doomed to always be betrayed by those he loves most. His mother. His best friend.

Even his musketeers fail him sometimes.

But not this time. Were it not for his own musketeers and their Captain, he would not have known this. He doesn't doubt the truth in his uncle's words, they match those of Marie-Claire too closely to be fabricated. Also, in a sideways glance, Louis can see the tension radiating off Axel, he can see the hand that is already sitting on the hilt of the man's sword.

After a deep breath, Louis looks up from the letter. Where is Rochefort? Where is he now when the need is greatest? Where is the Red Guard? Louis looks into Treville's eyes. The Musketeer Captain is here at least. As he always is.

"Axel," Louis begins, "Would you mind giving us a private moment, please?"

He looks sideways at his Swedish friend, who has his brows knit together and seems to be looking over Louis' shoulder rather than in his face. The earl nods, then pulls out his rapier and lunges towards Louis.

The King, despite reading of his friend's betrayal only moments ago, is caught completely by surprise. He only has time to flinch back and wonders if this is to be his death, stabbed to death before his own throne. Then steel meets steel as Treville lunges forward with his own rapier, throwing the earl off course. The battle that follows is quick. Even someone as strong and talented as Axel Porse cannot win against the expertise of the Musketeer Captain.

For the first time, Louis allows himself to look around to his family. They're unharmed, flanked by two of the Musketeers Treville had brought along, their enemies lying dead at their feet. More soldiers French and Swedish alike, lie bleeding on the ground with Musketeers standing over them.

Treville holds Axel Porse at sword point.

"What shall I do with him, Your Majesty?" the Captain asks.

Louis wants to say  _Kill him._ However, as a King, he knows he will have to allow for a trial. It will be an example: no one threatens the King of France.

"Put him in the Bastille." He whispers shakily. Treville allows to Musketeers and a Red Guard to pull the earl away.

Before Treville leaves, he rounds on Louis again.

"Your Majesty, I wish to organise a reconnaissance mission to retrieve some missing Museketeers."

"Missing Musketeers?" Louis asks, perplexed. How little that matters in the face of the near assassination he just went through.

"In the course of delivering this letter, one of our Musketeers was captured by the man who has been attacking nobles. He managed to hand the letter to some of the injured Musketeers who were left behind, and with the help of a fourth, they were able to bring the letter to my hands. However, three other Musketeers went in search of the captured Musketeer. They have yet to return and I fear for their lives."

Louis hopes he doesn't look as stunned as he feels by Treville's heated tirade.

"Your Majesty." Treville adds as an afterthought.

"Who are these brave Musketeers?" Anne, always so sweet, asks of Treville. There is something of fear in her voice.

"Those who returned are Vasser, Moreau, DuPont and Petit. All except for Petit were injured. D'Artagnan was taken, and his friends Porthos, Athos and Aramis went after him, Your Majesty. I was told that they took a prisoner, too. He said he worked under a man named Chassroi, who under further investigation, seems to be the Lord of Château Rouge."

"Oh!" Anne exclaims, true fear in her voice now. Louis understands. Those four Musketeers are as much his favourite as they are Anne's, "Then we must retrieve them!"

Louis nods. "Yes. You must. I order you to dispatch some Musketeers to find these brave men."

That was very Kingly. Now Louis excuses himself, because he needs to have a breakdown in his chambers, preferably with Rochefort to shout at.

* * *

Miles away, Chassroi lets out gasping breaths as he attempts to turn to the boy that murdered him. He has to admit he is almost impressed, the farmboy turned out to be a worthy adversary. But now he, too, lies still on the ground. Chassroi grins a bloody grin.

Perhaps the boy is dead after all. Chassroi closes his eyes against the pain.

To his right, a Gascon finger twitches.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now for the final chapter...

When Athos' head drops and his tight shoulders release their tension, time stops. Porthos can feel the muscles under his fingers relax, he can see the slump of Athos' body and everything just stops. Because this  _cannot_  be happening. They cannot have come this far, have travelled this far, gone through this much just to lose d'Artagnan now.

No.  _No._

Porthos knows death. He has been surrounded by it for as long as he can remember; he remembers his mother succumbing to a fever, remembers the corpses that decorated the Court when the snow melted each year. They were emaciated, blue from cold and rotting sweetly in the emerging spring sun. Death is something that has been part of his life for so long that he had almost dreamed that he was immune to it. That it couldn't reach him, touch him, where it hurt most.

Apparently, it still can. But this time, he won't rest in it, won't let it be.

"No." Porthos hears himself whisper, "No, Athos." 

He falls to his knees next to Athos, reaches out to d'Artagnan as if he can bring him back with the touch of his hand. Then it's Athos' hand on his shoulder, turning him away from their Gascon. It's all wrong, there's relief on Athos' face. Joy.

"He's alive." Athos says disbelievingly, then louder, "Porthos, he's alive!"

It takes two stutters for Porthos' heart to restart, for time to rerun its unstoppable course. He doesn't think he's ever seen Athos this giddy, this relieved. Behind them, feet start moving and Porthos would recognise those steps anywhere. Aramis. The Spaniard stands behind them, staring down at d'Artagnan's still form. Porthos looks up at him, can't hold back the grin at the knowledge that they're complete. Together. Inseparable even by death.

"Mon dieu, Athos. You really know how to frighten a man." Aramis breathes, "For a moment there I mistook your relief for defeat."

Lost for words, Athos simply shakes his head. So, Porthos speaks for him.

"We should have known he would be too stubborn to die."

They all chuckle, though the sound borders on hysterical and more than one tear shines in their eyes. Suddenly, Chassroi turns around with a gurgle to stare at d'Artagnan's still body, a grin twisting his bloody lips. The dangerous look Porthos sends the lord's way almost makes him miss the small twitch of d'Artagnan's finger.

He sees it, though. And so do Athos and Aramis. It's enough to snap them out of their relief-filled daze.

Athos is clasping d'Artagnan's face, calling his name, while Aramis steps carefully around the three of them to gain better access to their wounded friend. If he manages to kick Chassroi twice while doing so, no one says anything of it.

With hesitant fingers, Aramis tugs away the gauntlet that hides d'Artagnan's frame. The white undergarments that Athos gave d'Artagnan are stained red with blood and for a moment Aramis fears that they are too late after all. Perhaps Chassroi still managed to get in a good shot. Perhaps d'Artagnan is bleeding out right under their noses and they don't even realise it.

The blood seems to be coming from the longer cuts, shallow and painful but not deadly. Aramis clenches his jaw when he pulls the shirts back further; d'Artagnan's entire chest is a canvas of red's and blues. Older bruises have purpled or turned to a poisonous green, but what worries Aramis is the burn wounds that litter some parts of the skin as well. Next to the blackened burns, the hot redness of infection is creeping in.

"What is it?" Athos asks at the frown that appears on his friend's face while assessing d'Artagnan.

Aramis shakes his head in disapproval, as his fingers brush lightly over the burns, "Some of the wounds seem to have been cauterised…"

"I think he enjoyed doing that…" A voice groans from the ground.

The three Musketeers whip their heads towards d'Artagnan's face fast enough to break their necks. Even Porthos stops his business of attempting to stare Chassroi to death to appraise his young friend.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis exclaims. The Gascon's grin is enough to light a flame of hope in all their hearts.

* * *

Constance holds herself together. When Treville lets his eyes slide in her direction apologetically, she ignores him. When the Queen's hand curls around hers, she grips it in support. When the dauphin in thrust into her hands, she holds the child carefully, sways back and forth to soothe his cries.

She holds herself together. For as long as she can. Even when she hears of d'Artagnan's capture, and fear swallows her heart until there is nothing left of the woman she used to be. Even then, she remains outwardly calm.

Then later, when she's alone with the Queen, she falls apart. She may pretend she doesn't love d'Artagnan, but her heart will never truly believe her, no matter what she says. And when Anne stands next to her, her own demons clearly visible on her face, Constance realises she can be honest. She can break down.

They hold each other close, lost in despair for the Musketeers that have so easily captured their hearts. The dauphin lies between them, staring up at them with big eyes. The world must still hold so much wonder for the child; so much hope. He doesn't know that his mother is despairing for a father he will never know, and Constance feels strangely grateful for that fact.

Being in love with a soldier is one thing, having one for a father is another. Then again, what just happened in the throne room has certainly shown that there is danger in having a King as a father, too.

"This is exactly why I can't be with him you know," Constance says dryly, "I couldn't spend my life worrying every day if he'll come home."

Anne shakes her head, smile curling her lips as he gently strokes the dauphin's cheek before she looks up at her friend, "I don't think it matters if you're with him or not, you'll worry anyway. Besides, we both know there's a different reason that you're not with d'Artagnan."

Constance says nothing, simply takes time to pull herself back together. She pastes a smile back on her face (it's something she's become quite proficient at over the past year) and pulls herself out of the Queen's embrace.

"They'll come back. I'm sure of it." she reassures her friend. Anne smiles as well, straightening back into a queen.

"Of course." Anne says quietly, "Now where has Marguerite gotten to?"

And so the women do what is expected of them; they pull themselves together. They pretend. The two are no longer friends, only a Queen and her confidante.

Constance hates every moment.

* * *

It takes a long time to get moving. Even then, it's more of a graceful dragging than an actual walk. After all, in his state, the Gascon isn't exactly the strongest walker (not that he will ever admit it, stubborn idiot). Porthos and Aramis each have one of his arms slung over their shoulder. Athos is stumbling forward in front of them, adamantly ignoring the excruciating pain in his knee.

"You really shouldn't be walking on that knee, you know." Aramis pants from under d'Artagnan's arm, "You'll only make it worse."

"Are you offering to carry me?" Athos grunts through teeth gritted in pain, "I must say I wouldn't decline the offer."

Aramis frowns at Athos words. If the man is willing to admit to pain at all, then the actual pain must be through the roof. He hides it behind a smile though, unwilling to worry Porthos and d'Artagnan.

"I'm afraid my arm is slightly indisposed at the moment. Besides you're a heavy man to carry."

Porthos shoots in, "Must be all the wine weighing his blood down."

The sound of a musket cocking can be heard from behind the bushes in front of them. That little click is enough to bring the four musketeers to a standstill. Those capable of holding weapons – Porthos and Athos – slowly bring up their sword and harquebus respectively, waiting anxiously who will step out from behind the underbrush. Aramis wishes fervently that he still had use of both arms.

For a moment there's only the rustle of small branches and the crackle of dead leaves under several feet. Then, as suddenly as the cocking of the musket, someone steps out from the hiding place, weapon still held high and ready. It's a woman, red hair camouflaging her in the setting autumn sun.

"Who are you?" she asks, not entirely unkindly. She doesn't seem aggressive, merely careful. And really, with a lord like Chassroi in the area, the Musketeers can understand the sentiment.

Athos, as usual, takes charge, "My name is Athos. These are Porthos, d'Artagnan and Aramis. We're Musketeers."

The woman lets her eyes slide from Athos to the trio behind him. Her eyes linger on d'Artagnan, his form hanging weakly between Aramis and Porthos. He's still standing – stubborn to the very last – but he no longer possesses the strength to keep up his head; it droops, staring doggedly at the ground. Aramis feels his fingers twitch protectively tighter around the Gascon's waist and he can see Porthos push down the urge to step in front of them as a protection from the prying eyes.

"What's wrong with him?" the woman asks, almost worried.

When Athos answers, his voice is tight with hidden emotion, "He was tortured for information he did not possess. He's in urgent need of care."

The woman nods, lowering her musket and signing something to someone still hidden in the underbrush. To the Musketeers she says, "You can lay him down if you wish. We'll make sure help is on its way."

For a moment, as Aramis makes to lower his friend to the ground, he thinks he can hear d'Artagnan mutter a disgruntled, "Not  _that_ urgent." about being laid on the cold forest floor. Then he decides he must have imagined it, because the Gascon barely looks capable of speaking in his current state.

"No." Athos tells Aramis and Porthos sharply before turning back to the woman, "I think all of us could do with a bed and some warmth."

The woman nods understandingly and beckons them forwards. Though Athos is right, Aramis can't help but scold him, "I think your knee could really do with some rest, Athos."

"My knee can wait." Athos murmurs, then shoots d'Artagnan a look that clearly says  _but he can't._

The Musketeers are led into a village that lies snugly between the balding trees. The grand total of two streets that the place possesses are streaked with mud and the population of pigs seems to exceed that of humans. Still, like any half-decent French village, there is an inn. In there, the musketeers find warmth and kindness. Within no time there is a fire going, food and wine gracing the nearby tables. D'Artagnan lies to the side, on the first table they reached when they entered.

It takes only a few minutes for the door to open again, this time with medical assistance in tow. The three Musketeers smile when they see who the medical assistance is.

"Melanie!" Aramis exclaims in relief, "I was hoping it would be you."

* * *

Chateau Rouge is all but empty. There are a few guards manning the gates and pacing the walls, but it seems to be more for show than for anything else. The courtyard within looks deserted, weapons and rubble lie around like they were left in a hurry. Even the halls of the castle, places that are usually filled with a flurry of activity, stand cold and bare.

A feeling of unease creeps up Captain Treville's spine. Something in this castle is very, very wrong. He orders his men – half a garrison of volunteers – to spread out in search of their colleagues. He sets out for the dungeons himself, Petit and Vasser in tow. If there are dead or mangled bodies to be found, he needs to be the one to find them. He owes that to his men.

The dungeons, too, seem to be deserted. Some look like they have recently been occupied, though, with bandages and water littering the ground. Then, when they have gone as deep down as they can, they find a cell that stills their heart. It's a torture cell, plain and simple. There are instruments lining the walls and chains hanging from the ceiling. Some of the knives are still red with rusty blood.

In the corner lies a shirt that the Musketeers recognise all too well.

"D'Artagnan…" Petit whispers in horror as he moves towards the shirt. Dark stains become evident as he picks it up to get a better look.

Vasser pales as he moves closer, looking at Treville for guidance. Treville clenches his jaw.

"He's not here anymore." The Captain says, stating the obvious, "He must have escaped."

Petit and Vasser nod, but they also share a look that is much darker. Both of them hear the unspoken second explanation for their friends' absence. They may have escaped, or they may be lying in a hole, six feet under the ground.

Feet thunder down the corridor and the Musketeers reach for their weapons, ready to tackle whoever comes careening around the door. It turns out to be Moreau, panting and clutching at his still wounded arm. The man spares barely a look at the room but turns to his Captain. Before he can even utter a single word, Vasser is scolding him.

"You shouldn't be running like that, Moreau."

Moreau ignores him.

"In the kitchen," he pants, "Woman in the kitchen says they escaped. Reckons she helped them find the way…"

Treville is striding out of the cell before the sentence is even finished, "Take me to her."

The woman turns out the be the head of the kitchen. She has a distinct hand shaped bruise on her cheek, and is brandishing a large wooden spoon like a weapon, ordering the cooks and servants around.

"Four of 'em, yeah?" she asks, "They said they were musketeers. Melanie had warned me they might be coming, mind you. So I gave them some food for the road. They looked about done for, in my opinion."

"Where were they headed?" Treville asks in return.

"They were asking after the village, so that way I suppose. But you're too late, you know. Chassroi went after them with more than half is guard," she adds darkly, "the bastard." 

"He went after them?" Petit breathes, looking about ready to do the same.

"Oui. Wasn't too happy that I let them out." She pointed at the bruise in her face in way of an explanation.

"He did that to you?" comes Vasser's angry voice, "I'm liking this man less and less every time I meet him."

"Would have smacked him over the head a long time ago if he didn't pay so well. High time someone gave him the trouble those four men are giving him." she said.

Treville takes a moment to appreciate that even outnumbered and wounded, his men still manage give a powerful lord a run for his money. A moment later, he realises that they don't stand a chance against the small army that the man must have had gathered within these walls. He orders his men out, and adds one last order to Petit, Moreau and Vasser.

"You four, stay at the back. I do not want any more injuries from you."

"I'm not injured." Petit points out.

"No, you need to keep them in check." Treville mutters, then adds as an afterthought, "And make sure DuPont doesn't do anything stupid, like trying to stand on his broken leg. Again."

Petit nods grimly and the rest of the Musketeers set out.

* * *

After Melanie has taken care of all four Inseparables, she leaves them behind with strict orders of sleep and bedrest. Then she lays one last hand on d'Artagnan's sweaty head.

"My daughter is his age, you know." She murmurs to Athos, who is sat at the side of the Gascon's bed with his leg propped up, "He reminds me a lot of her. Just as stubborn."

"I had a brother like d'Artagnan, once. Thomas was his name." Athos answers morosely, "Stubbornness did little to help him."

"I'm sorry about your brother." Melanie smiles sadly, "But d'Artagnan will pull through, I'm sure of it. He was much worse the last time I saw him, and he managed to survive another round with Chassroi. It takes a special kind of person to get through something like that twice. This boy strikes me as exactly that kind of person."

Athos smiles, too. Though the words feel empty in the face of d'Artagnan's pain, they do manage to alleviate some of the worry in Athos' heart.

"Thank you." He says, truly grateful, "For everything. I don't know how we can ever repay you."

"You have ridded us of a monster by killing Chassroi. That is payment enough." Melanie answers seriously, then smiles cheekily, "Though, I would appreciate it if I didn't have to come back to save your lives a third time."

With a laugh, Melanie grabs her bag of herbs and walks to the door.

Athos sits by d'Artagnan, hand running absentmindedly through his long hair. Once again, Athos cannot help but see his late brother in the Gascon. Sometimes it's easy to forget how young d'Artagnan really is, but right now, with his face void of pain or worry, he actually looks his age. That line of thinking is exactly what got them into this situation; one full of danger and animosity. D'Artagnan may be young; but he is not a child. Nor is he naïve or unqualified.

As soon as Athos had realised that d'Artagnan was starting to mean something to him – that losing him would affect him more than the loss of another – he had started seeing similarities between the Gascon and Thomas. The leap wasn't all too difficult to make. Both were young, presumptuous, spirited and smart. Both threw themselves headfirst into everything, no matter the damage to body or soul. Both had somehow placed their trust in the most unlikely person; in him.

It had killed Thomas. Athos' greatest fear is that one day it will kill d'Artagnan, too.

For the first time (and too late, unfortunately), Athos realises that he has compared d'Artagnan and Thomas too much. He loved Thomas, and he loves d'Artagnan, but they are not the same man and he does not care for them for the same reasons.

D'Artagnan has a streak of independence that Thomas never had. Though their characters are similar, they were raised so absolutely differently that they've turned into completely different men. D'Artagnan, despite his youth, is not naïve. Raised on a farm, surrounded by poverty and people who struggled every day to make ends meet, he has had a less rosy view from the world from the get go. Not to mention the deeply moral father who tried to make the world a better and more equal place until his dying breath.

D'Artagnan is the legacy of that man, a product of his own childhood.

Perhaps it was difficult to see d'Artagnan's hardships through the scarring of his own soul. Perhaps Athos saw only what he wanted to see; another Thomas, another chance at brotherhood. Now, with the boy's defences down so thoroughly, Athos can see d'Artagnan's iron core. This Gascon will not go down easily. Why would he? He is a musketeer, after all.

And musketeers don't die easily.

From behind Athos, Aramis gasps his way out of a dream. Wild eyes glance around the room for a moment before falling on d'Artagnan's peaceful form. Aramis relaxes, dropping back onto the mattress with something like a smile on his face.

No, d'Artagnan won't die easily. Even if he wants to, his friends will never let him.

* * *

The forest floor is littered with corpses and groaning men. Purple sashes decorate their bodies and in the middle, on top of a velvet purple cloak, face frozen forever in agony, lies Chassroi. Treville moves over him, weapon at the ready and feels for a pulse. There is none. He looks around again, assessing the forest-turned-battlefield.

It may as well have been a note saying: Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan were here.

No one else could have managed to win a fight against these odds. But if they won, then where are they now? Champoir, one of the younger musketeers, disturbs Treville's musings.

"I've found a trail, sir. Looks like it could be them." the man says, motioning to the left.

"How do you know it's them?" Treville asks, but he's already moving in that direction, motioning for the rest of his men to follow.

"Well, there's enough damage to the roots and twigs for about four men, and…." Champoir swallows, "And there's blood, sir."

Treville nods stiffly, grabbing his horse by the reins with slightly more force than necessary. He nods to Champoir.

"You lead, the rest will follow."

* * *

Porthos sleeps like the dead. Literally. He lies completely still, with none of his usual snoring or twisting of the sheets. There's just his immobile body and a deep, even breathing to show that he's still alive. It's so different from how Porthos usually is, that Aramis stares in wonder. For a moment he contemplates poking Porthos in the side (his ticklishness is the man's greatest weakness in Aramis' opinion) but then thinks better of it.

After almost a week of little to no care for his concussion, Porthos can really use the sleep. So, Aramis turns to his other friends instead. Athos is sitting at d'Artagnan's bedside, frowning so deeply that it looks like he's trying to  _will_  d'Artagnan awake. Looking at the Gascon himself is a lot more painful. It's difficult to miss the pale skin and the multitude of wounds that grace the boy's torso.

"He hasn't woken yet?" Aramis asks. Athos startles, head snapping up like a whip. He shakes his head.

"That's to be expected, you know." Aramis consoles, "How is your knee doing?"

"Fine." Athos bites out. It's obviously a lie. So, Aramis fetches cold water and cloth to cool Athos' leg again. He knows that the knee has had too much strain. Falling right onto it when he saw d'Artagnan lying in the dirt can't have done it much good, nor has the journey here.

"You shouldn't worry so much, Athos. Melanie said d'Artagnan was recovering." Ignoring Athos' grunt as he lays a newly cold cloth on the man's knee, Aramis continues, "Besides, he's not going to let a little fever keep him down."

With a frown, Athos relays his true worries to Aramis, "Everyone keeps telling me that. But what he went through, Aramis… He will not just spring back from that."

"He has shown himself to be more resilient than we give him credit for."

"No, he has shown us that he is capable of hiding away his pain and worries. That he can shove down his grief and his nightmares so we can't see it. But he still blames himself for his father's death, Aramis. All this time he has been dealing with that pain, that guilt, and we did not see it…" Frustration and guilt ooze from the comte's words.

"A father's death always weighs heavy on the heart, Athos. We helped him get through that, and we will help him get through this." Aramis says.

"No, Aramis, you don't understand." Athos says, then in a sudden burst of honesty, "I… I do not think I can be trusted with something like this. Look at the last time I got drunk, I nearly broke our brotherhood with my words. I nearly broke  _d'Artagnan._  I'm not to be trusted when I drink too much, Aramis. Not with this."

For a few moments there is nothing but the quiet breathing of their sleeping friends and the soft pitter patter of water drops falling to the ground. Aramis frowns. It's disconcerting to see his usually stoic friend so open and raw.

"What exactly did you tell d'Artagnan that night?" the Spaniard asks carefully.

Athos looks away, eyes held firmly on the young Gascon next to him. He wants nothing more than to relieve himself of the burden of his guilt. He wants to tell Aramis and make him understand what a  _monster_  he is. At the same time, he doesn't think he can bear the way Aramis will look at him when he does say it.

"Among other things, I told him that he had caused his father's death." Athos says softly. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Aramis' hands still on the compress he's making. The water drips faster, louder, "It was a badly formulated phrase, but d'Artagnan believed it."

The silence from Aramis is louder than anything he could have said.

"d'Artagnan always believes everything I say. What will I say the next time? What will my treacherous tongue blame him of the next time?" Athos despairs, then adds softly, "I will not be his downfall, Aramis. I can't be."

A large intake of breath sounds from Aramis before he speaks, "Then perhaps you should pour yourself fewer glasses, my friend."

At the look of surprise on Athos' face, Aramis cocks his head to the side with a grim smile.

"I think we all know that d'Artagnan was in no way responsible for his father's death. If you insinuated such a thing, it must have been due to intoxication and confusion. A slip of the tongue, as you just put it. It was not the first time, that night. Both Porthos and I have had our fair share of heartache and anger over your drunken words. We know to pay your drunken ramblings no heed because they often make little sense. D'Artagnan did not know this, but he will in the future."

"Are you telling me I'm  _not_ to blame for this? That my actions weren't terrible?"

"Your actions were terrible, but if you want to put the blame somewhere, put it on the alcohol that distorts your words and turns you into a lesser man than you are." Aramis answers, adding, when he sees Athos is about to argue, "Wine is the way you  _cope_  with your demons, Athos, don't let it create more of them."

A grunt from the corner alerts them both to Porthos' wakeful state. The large man grimaces in pain, then shoots Athos a look that sticks halfway between anger and grief. Athos pales considerably when he realises Porthos must have heard at least the tail end of the conversation.

"How long have you been awake?" he snaps, fear morphing to anger.

By way of answer, Porthos raises his hand and gives a vague wave. "Long enough," then he points at Aramis, "What I think our silver-tongued friend is trying to tell you in a long, artfully pleasing way, is this."

Porthos sits up straighter, leans towards Athos and says in his deep, hoarse voice, "You are forgiven."

When Aramis nods in agreement and Athos shakes his head vehemently, ready to argue for the sake of his own fears and the injustice towards d'Artagnan, Porthos continues.

"I have to warn you, though; we'll be monitoring your drinks again from now on." There's a smirk on his face as he says it, youthful glee at the prospect of having power over Athos. Aramis truly laughs for the first time in days and even Athos manages to crack half a smile.

Then Porthos face suddenly turns serious, his tone hard, "Oh. Another thing. You say something like that to d'Artagnan again, you'll have my fist up your nose."

Athos grimaces, "I'll hold you to that."

* * *

An arrow snicks right past Treville's cheek, burying itself in a tree behind him. He's instantly alert, weapons ready, eyes scanning the skeletal underbrush until he catches movement to the right. The other Musketeers follow his example almost without realising it, ever vigilant to the danger that took their colleagues from them.

"Who goes there?" Treville yells at the bushes. He thinks he can see people hiding in them.

It takes a few seconds for the answer to come and when it does, the voice is surprisingly feminine, "I could ask you the same."

"My name is Treville. I am Captain of the King's Musketeers and I am looking for four of my men." The underbrush whispers quietly as the Captain speaks and he decides to add a plea "Perhaps you can help us?"

A red-head appears between the trees and beckons them, "Follow me."

They do.

* * *

On the way to the village, the musketeers are informed of the dire condition of their friends, and that they're staying at the inn. The inn, itself, isn't so much an inn as a glorified house that allows others to stay and eat in the living room. It's small, shabby and lies snugly between its neighbouring houses.

But, Treville thinks, if he finds his four best men inside, even just semi-alive, it will turn out to be the most beautiful place he has ever laid eyes on. Motioning for his men to stay back, he reaches for the door. The red haired woman who led them here smiles encouragingly.

Treville pushes. The door opens.

To the left, by a raging fire, sit three dishevelled men. They're gathered around a fourth, lying on the bed, eyes closed breathing deeply in sleep. For the first time since his departure from Paris, Treville dares to breathe again.

Ever alert, Porthos is the first to turn his head towards the door.

"Captain!" he exclaims with a grin, "Took you long enough."

* * *

When d'Artagnan wakes up, he's staring at a dark ceiling where spiders crawl between the wooden beams. They weave intricate white patterns and remind the Gascon that he truly has no idea where he is. Flames flicker over the walls. He has little recollection of the past few days (weeks?).

In fact, the last thing he remembers clearly is a dying soldier toppling over onto him. He remembers, vaguely, that he woke up. He remembers the mix of relief and worry on his brothers' faces. The walk that followed was gruelling. His legs wouldn't support him and the arms that had supported him for far too long this past week were slung painfully over two pairs of shoulders.

Shadows walked the forest. Familiar figures with familiar faces. Dead figures, laughing in the haunting breeze. Voices whispered with every falling leaf, a whip cracked with every broken twig under their feet. When the wind howled and the branches shook, d'Artagnan heard Chassroi.

"I'm not done with you yet," the dead lord breathed, "You and your friends will never be rid of me."

D'Artagnan never had the strength to reply. Too much energy went into the dragging of his feet and the in- and exhale of his lungs. Now, in the safety of this warm place he doesn't remember entering, the Gascon allows himself a reply.

"I killed you." He murmurs into the room, "You're never coming back."

Flames crackle in the fireplace. For a moment d'Artagnan thinks he hears them whisper, hears  _him_  whisper, "I don't have to come back, I'm already in your head."

Then the moment is broken by Treville's rusty voice and his large calloused hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder. It all echoes in the dark, "D'Artagnan? Are you awake?"

The Gascon decides that his confused, "Captain? What are you doing here?" is enough of an answer. All he gets in return is a chuckle before he feels his tired eyes slide shut.

What follows is three days of bedrest for d'Artagnan, a reunion with Petit, Moreau, DuPont and Vasser, lots of complaining from Athos about his inability to walk and many, many compliments and words of gratitude from those around him. D'Artagnan finds it all very embarrassing.

When Melanie finally gives them all permission to get on their horses and ride back to Paris, d'Artagnan has a long awaited reunion with his lovely yellow horse; Buttercup. The horse whinnies softly into his hair, and he doesn't stop smiling for a full day.

* * *

Paris dooms up from a distance, the sun setting on its walls and sliding lazily over the sprawling outer edges of the city. There's a distinct chill in the air, a fine fog already forming low on the ground. It'll be cold tonight. Porthos feels his heart lift at the sight. He's home.  _Finally._  He can't wait for his warm bed and the pillow that will be so kind to his still vaguely aching head.

D'Artagnan winces slightly as his horse comes to a standstill, the motion jerking him forward and pulling at every aching piece of his body. His fever has gone down, but Porthos can't help but notice that the Gascon still shrinks into his coat every few minutes, hungry for a scrap of warmth.

"There she is," Porthos tells d'Artagnan with a smile, "Our beautiful Paris…"

"I suppose we'll have to see the king before we get to sleep?" d'Artagnan answers darkly. The glee he felt when he was finally allowed to leave his bed a few days ago has all but disappeared, drowned by pain.

"Ah, but the palace holds something very enticing, does it not?" Aramis says from behind them, smirking, "I believe the queen's new confidante will be enchanted by your presence."

With a grimace, d'Artagnan shakes his head, "She won't be. We need distance, she said so herself."

"Well, mon ami, I will let you in on a little secret about the fairer sex." Aramis moves his horse between that of Porthos and d'Artagnan, nearly losing his balance due to his one incapacitated arm, and whispers, "Women never say what they really mean."

D'Artagnan snorts and shakes his head, "I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

The throne room is full, guards standing on all sides, Musketeers at the ready in case of any threat. Louis, already paranoid after the death of his father and the myriad of failed coups he has been privy to in his short life, is not taking any chances. Rochefort stands to the side, arms behind his back, scrutinising the people around him with madly intelligent eyes.

Treville enters first, eight musketeers in tow. They all look a bit worse for the wear. Both Porthos and Petit, the two largest of the group, seem to have come off lightly; a little bruising around he face but not much more. DuPont and Athos are both limping, one using wooden crutched to keep the strain from his set leg and the other leaning heavily on Porthos, refusing to look weaker than he is. Anne notices the sling that keeps up Aramis' arm and he heavy bruising around his neck. She sees the pale faces of Vasser and Moreau, bandages peaking from between their clothes.

And d'Artagnan… Anne wraps an arm tightly around Constance's shoulders at the sight of him. Face drawn, eyes tight with pain, the movements of his body as he steps forward are stiff. His one hand is firmly bandaged, his face looks swollen and bruised and when he moves he arches away from the leather that touches his back. Away from some kind of pain that neither Queen nor confidante can place.

The sound that comes out when Constance swallows back her fear breaks Anne's royal heart. She clutches her friend that much closer. By this time, the Musketeers have made their way in front of the throne. They bow reverently, to the degree that their various injuries allow.

"Your Majesty," Treville greets, "I'm glad to inform you that our mission was a success. There were no Musketeer casualties."

Louis nods, standing and straightening his clothes importantly.

"It's good to hear that some of my guard are still competent. I owe all of you my sincerest gratitude for saving my life and that of my family. You have all served your King and you country well. Like true Musketeers, you were willing to give your life for me. I hope I will be seeing much more of you." The King states. Anne knows for a fact that the man came up with this speech yesterday and spent hours learning it by heart.

The Musketeers all bow again, words of thanks spilling over their lips at their King's gratitude.

Louis adds one more thing, "Of course, I'm excited to hear all about what happened over the past few weeks."

"And you will, Your Majesty," Treville answers, "However, I believe some rest would do these brave men well."

Anne nods gently towards her husband, "He's right, Louis. After their ordeal and their journey, they must be exhausted."

It is agreed that the Musketeers will return back to the garrison for some well-earned rest and that they will return the following day to tell their harrowing tale. The Musketeers themselves don't look too eager at prospect, probably reluctant to relive the last few perilous weeks. They agree, though. After all, one can hardly refuse the king.

"Your Majesty," Constance says carefully, "Would you excuse me for a moment? There is something I would very much like to ask the Musketeers before they leave."

Anne smiles and nods her friend away.

* * *

Eight Musketeers stand behind the door to the throne room, waiting for their Captain to accompany them home. They stare into nothing, wincing when they move their tired limbs too quickly. There's little conversation between them. If anything had to be said, it has been said over the past few days of each other's company.

Apologies have been made between Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan. Athos has been repeatedly reassured that he is truly forgiven. The other four, who were mostly bystanders in the whole argument, give each other knowing looks when they find that the Inseparables have once again proved to be truly inseparable.

Petit is just suggesting that they go out for dinner and a drink before they go to sleep, when the doors to the throne room open. It's not Treville who comes out, however.

It's Constance.

She doesn't even utter a single word. She just throws herself at d'Artagnan with tears in her eyes, gripping his body like it's made of spun glass, so afraid of hurting him more. The Gascon pulls her closer, grips her tightly and ignores the pangs of pain that her warm hands ignite. He can live with those. He can  _revel_  in those if it means he's being held by Constance.

Burying his nose in her hair, he inhales her scent. For a while, he thought he would never be able to do this again. He lets himself forget the past few weeks. The past few  _months_  even. He's never felt more at home. After a minute or two, Athos coughs subtly into his knuckle. The two love birds separate momentarily, shooting the comte a questioning look. His gaze is not on them, though.

"Hello again, Captain." He says calmly, "I suggest we wait for d'Artagnan outside?"

The Captain, who has apparently just left the throne room, only to find his newest recruit in a tight embrace with the Queen's married confidante, simply smiles and waves his men forward. For a moment d'Artagnan thinks the man  _winks_  as he passes. But that can't be right.

Once they're alone again, d'Artagnan turns back to Constance and brushes her hair lightly out of her face. He wants to kiss her, but he knows he can't. Not now. Not ever. It wouldn't be fair. But he doesn't know what to say either, so he simply waits for her rapid-fire tongue.

"I wasn't worried, you know." Constance says, hands still tight on d'Artagnan's shoulders, "I didn't really miss you. I hardly even realised you were gone. Not that I ever really notice whether you're around, mind you."

"You don't?" d'Artagnan says with a smile.

Constance shakes her head and d'Artagnan's smile grows into a grin.

"So, you  _weren't_  worried, you  _didn't_  miss me, you  _don't_  notice whether I'm around or not?"

"Exactly."

"And suppose you  _don't_ love me?" d'Artagnan asks cheekily, hope plastered all over his face. Constance slaps at his head half-heartedly, her sweet smile almost hidden by her blush.

At that moment, d'Artagnan resolves to tell Aramis that he is right. Women never say what they mean.

* * *

On Petit's suggestion, the eight Musketeers that started the journey to the south find themselves in an inn, eating big humps of meat and sharing a bottle of wine. Soon their ways part, the Inseparables delving deeper into their bottles as their more sensible friends head for their beds. With what they've been through, the four remaining Musketeers know they will need some alcohol to get to sleep.

Not two hours later, when the night is still relatively young, and the streets are filled with those who have not yet decided whether it is evening or night, the Musketeers leave the inn. Athos is not quite drunk, but the warm food and the company of his friends has loosened his lips and the tight grip on his heart. He basks in their warmth, relishes in the Gascon he very nearly lost.

"You are the best of all of us, d'Artagnan." Athos says as he parts ways with his friends, patting the Gascon's cheek very uncharacteristically. The honesty serves them all well, he knows.

"I know." D'Artagnan says sarcastically, "I'll remind you of that when I convince you to train with me tomorrow morning."

Athos makes a face and d'Artagnan wanders back to the garrison between Porthos and Aramis' lurching and singing forms. The moon shines down like a beacon as the garrison looms up at the end of the long Parisian street. There's a warm bed waiting for him there, and though he wishes Constance were it in, looking from afar will have to be good enough for now.

Because d'Artagnan is in love. He's in love with Paris and it's cobbled little alleys, he's in love with the brightly shining moon and the stars he had thought he would never see again. He's in love with the new home that he's made in the garrison, he's in love with the family that will fight its way back to him no matter the costs.

He's in love with the beautiful, red-haired draper's wife who worried so terribly when he was gone and in love with the wine that has made his memories murky and his heart light.

For the first time in weeks, d'Artagnan sleeps dreamlessly. Why shouldn't he?

His heart is light and full of hope. _He's home._

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Excuse the grammatical and spelling errors, I'm sure a few snuck in.


End file.
